


Falling Slowly

by newbie93



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: A whole new world, AU, Busker Fitz, F/M, Once AU, Pianist Jemma, The FitzSimmons Network, more than 5k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newbie93/pseuds/newbie93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After catching his girlfriend in bed with his roommate, Leo Fitz decides to head home to Scotland for the summer for a much needed change of scenery. Once there, Fitz decides to pursue his long-forgotten passion for music and attracts the attention of Jemma Simmons, a woman whose own instrumental prowess becomes the inspiration he needs to finally record the songs that he’s kept to himself for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nay, Falling Fast

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part as the More Than 5K/A Whole New World exchange put on by the always swell FitzSimmons Network on Tumblr. This was written for theboyfallsfromthesky on Tumblr whose prompt was, "Once AU"

Leo Fitz has always known that the beginning of the end really just marks the end of the beginning. The two go hand-in-hand but it’s not until the summer after turning in his PhD thesis that he feels the full weight of what _certain_ ends and beginnings can have on a person. 

Handing in the paper he’d spent the better part of a few years working on makes him quickly realize just how much time has passed him by. He’s perfectly content with his life but there’s an underlying sense of regret that seems to flow through him once he no longer feels as though he has a purpose. The PhD had been his sole focus, the one thing driving him, and he panics slightly at the realization that he now has to figure out what comes next. 

It takes walking in on his girlfriend in bed with his roommate for Fitz to decide that _what comes next_ is a much needed change of scenery or, rather, a reintroduction to some more _familiar_ scenery. 

During their last phone call, his mother had mentioned that she was taking a well-deserved vacation for the summer and would likely have a neighbor pop into the flat every now and again to gather the mail and water the plants. After quickly kicking both his _ex-_ roommate and his _ex-_ girlfriend out of his apartment, Fitz picks up thephone and tells his mother to forget about calling her neighbor. 

He packs his bag, grabbing the forgotten guitar beneath his bed in a moment of spontaneity, and shuts the door to his London flat before hailing a cab to Heathrow with the desire to, at least temporarily, put England behind him. 

-O- 

He’s back in the town he’d thought he’d long since outgrown for about a week before he remembers that he’d left Glasgow so many years ago for a reason. 

There’s a certain feeling of melancholia that he’s never quite been able to disassociate with his Scottish city, the memories of lost friends and absent fathers surrounding the area like ghosts who encroach upon him until his lungs fill with lead, dragging him down and pulling him under until the clarity he’s felt since leaving is replaced with a hazy fog of repressed emotions. 

It’s home, and Fitz loves it with an unconditionality that comes from spending his entire childhood roaming the streets with his head in the clouds, but it lacks the consuming vastness of London that never fails to inspire him. Though, he supposes that losing himself in London is what brought him back to Glasgow in the first place. 

Because he didn’t _lose_ himself, he lost _himself._

He became so focused on university and his PhD and doing what he’s _good_ at, that he forgot to allow himself even a small amount of time to simply enjoy people and things with no other motivation than the fleeting happiness that said people and things bring to him. 

He’s well aware that this sudden need to return to his old life stems from his desire to separate himself, at least for a little while, from his _new_ one, but Fitz can’t quite seem to scrub the image of Raina caught in the throws of passion with a muscled bloke that most decidedly _wasn’t_ him long enough to actually begin the process of discovering himself. 

So, he’s back home to start from the beginning and seek a different end. 

He’d hoped that a summer in his childhood home would be a distraction from the panging feelings of sadness and anger but is quick to discover that wallowing alone in his outdated bedroom is hardly a distraction at all. In fact, it provides him ample time to replay the relationship-ending moment on a constant loop in his mind. It only takes about two weeks of lounging around in his pajamas before he gets one of his mother’s daily, “Just checking in,” phone calls that ends with her tersely demanding that he leave the flat and, “Do _something_ other than attend a pity party for one.” 

Getting chastised by his mother as though he’s still ten years old and causing small fires at school is enough to motivate Fitz to at least venture out of the flat and he pulls on some actual clothes before walking out the door to mindlessly roam the streets. 

Just as he’s exiting the building, he bumps into the closest thing he’s had to a father and grins when Coulson wraps him in what could only be described as a bear hug. The older man squeezes him in excitement before ushering him into the little shop located beneath the Fitz flat. 

Fitz can’t help but smile at the older man’s enthusiasm as Coulson asks question after question about his life in London and recent accomplishments, and is struck by how much he’s actually _missed_ him. They’d exchanged emails every now and again, and Fitz hadn’t forgotten to send Coulson the model Corvette he’d found for his birthday, but spending a morning simply _talking_ and fiddling with the broken objects in the shop reminds Fitz of how much Coulson has been there for him over the years. 

He manages to fix three watches before noting the actual _time_ and realizes that he’s spent the entire day chatting and working with Coulson, much like he had as a teen. Coulson himself checks one of the recently restored watches, clapping Fitz on the shoulder and declaring that it’s closing time. Fitz bashfully gets up and heads towards the exit before pausing and turning around to glance around the dark store as Coulson moves to lock up. 

He peers around the shop that he’d spent much of his youth tucked away in and catches Coulson staring at him with a small smile when he finally turns his head to face the other man. He twists his hands for a few moments before shifting slightly and peering at the older man with a hopeful expression. 

“I don’t suppose you could use another pair of hands this summer?” 

He’s a bit hesitant to ask the question even though he already knows what Coulson’s answer will likely be. The older man had only ever given him one answer when Fitz had asked the question in the past and, based on the growing smile on his face, Fitz is certain that the answer will be no different this time around. 

“Be here at nine.” 

-O- 

He and Coulson quickly fall into a routine that has Fitz flashing back on more than one occasion to the afternoons they’d spent together, holed up at Coulson’s Cogs and silently working on whatever objects needed fixing. They spend their lunch breaks catching up, Coulson telling Fitz about the shenanigans his mother gets into and Fitz telling _Coulson_ about what sent him home. The older man listens intently and offers Fitz the sage wisdom that he’s been severely lacking as of late. 

It’s one afternoon about a week into his new job that Fitz clambers up to the apartment during lunch and brings his guitar back down to fiddle with in the back room of the watch shop. 

It’s woefully out of tune due to its neglect in London, but Fitz finds himself relaxing almost immediately as he begins to strum tunes that he’d thought of ages ago. He hums along and scribbles words onto a nearby sketch pad, black ink bleeding into the starch white pages, and doesn’t realize how lost he’s gotten in the music until a cough comes from the direction of the door. 

The music stops abruptly as Fitz whips his head to the left and sees Coulson leaning against the doorframe and staring at him with a contemplative expression. 

“I didn’t realize you were still writing music.” 

Fitz’s cheeks color at the older man’s words and he hastily shoves the guitar back in its case before moving it under the table and, _mostly_ , out of sight. “M’not. That was… it just… I was just goofing around. You know… getting my mind moving a bit differently. Figured it might help me work out the problem with the old grandfather that was dropped off yesterday.” 

The truth is he _has_ been writing. Sporadically and without much fanfare, but being _alone_ and back in Glasgow had caused him to see and feel things he hadn’t in quite some time. There are post-its and napkins littering his desk with words and notes that, last night, Fitz had taken the time to write out, carefully filling sheet music after sheet music with the songs that have been rolling in his head. 

He ducks his head while rubbing anxiously at his neck and doesn’t look up until he hears Coulson hum thoughtfully. When he makes eye contact with the older man, Fitz sees a knowing look in Coulson’s eyes that makes him think that his stumbled answer likely was just as unbelievable to _Coulson_ as it was to him. 

Still, he doesn’t back down, and instead stares at the older man, challenging him to voice whatever it is that Fitz can see lurking behind his eyes. He doesn’t have to wait long because in the next moment, Coulson is pushing himself off the doorframe. 

“You’re only here for the summer Fitz. It won’t be long before you have to head back to London and start that engineering job that you’re _obligated_ to do. If there’s something you think you might _want_ to do in the interim… now might be a good time to actually try.” With that, Coulson turns around and heads back into the main section of the shop, leaving Fitz to stare after him and think about what it is the other man thinks he _wants._

-O- 

The next morning, with Coulson’s advice replaying in his mind, Fitz lugs his guitar to the tourist section of the city and pulls it out unceremoniously when he finds a spot that he thinks might bring a decent amount of foot traffic. 

It’s still early so Fitz takes his time flitting through his Rolodex of songs and trying to work out the optimal time to play each one. He nervously shuffles his feet, eyes glancing warily around as he tries to muster the courage to just rip off the band-aid and start playing. After taking a few deep breaths and reminding himself that this doesn’t actually _matter,_ it’s not a life or death situation that will forever change his life, he begins to pluck the strings of his guitar and dives in. 

At around noon, after a surprisingly successful morning, Fitz notices an old schoolmate loitering nearby and isn’t all that surprised to see the slightly tipsy wobble to Lance Hunter’s gait as he moves towards him. 

“Fitzy!” 

He winces at the childhood nickname, yet another thing he’d intended on leaving behind in Glasgow so many years ago, and nods politely at Hunter in between songs. “Alright Hunt?” 

The man grins and gives him an exaggerated wink, coupled with a thumbs up, and somehow manages to slur out a, “Never better mate.” 

The other man’s glassy eyes and slight swaying makes Fitz think that he’s actually been _much_ better, but he doesn’t say anything in lieu of starting up another song so as to _not_ start up a conversation. Hunter nods and taps his foot in time with the song but Fitz has seen him pick more than his fair of pockets during their youth and feels a wariness begin to creep through him as he notes the way the other man’s eyes keep flicking towards the open guitar case laying in front of him. 

Or, more specifically, the way his eyes are flicking between the _coins_ scattered in the case that are gleaming in the late-morning sun. 

When he looks up and catches Fitz staring at him, Hunter gives him a broad grin before reaching into his pocket and adding a few coins to the case between them. Fitz gives him an appreciative nod of the head but the gesture doesn’t do much to lessen the suspicious feeling that seems to have consumed him. Hunter is still standing closer to him than he ever had in their time growing up together as children and Fitz can tell that the other man has no interest in sharing memories and reminiscing through the swapping of old school stories. 

Fitz keeps playing, grateful that this song is one he knows well enough not to have to look at his fingers as they move along the neck of his guitar. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Hunter as his wariness over the other man’s intentions grows with each step closer he takes towards the open guitar case laying at his feet. 

He’s just about to stop playing and tell Hunter to keep walking when the other man snatches the case off the ground and sprints down the street. 

“Oh _fuck.”_

Fitz doesn’t hesitate to run after the other man, shoving his guitar until it’s in a position that’s more conducive for chasing an old school mate who’s stolen a case of money down the street. 

“God, fucking, _dammit_ HUNTER _!_ Get back here!”

They run nearly twelve blocks before Hunter starts to slow, pausing every few steps to take a breath and turn his head to see if Fitz is still following. Each time he sees that the answer is, _yes,_ Fitz _is_ in fact still following, Hunter releases a groan and begins to move, albeit far more slowly, in an attempt to get away from him. 

Finally, when they reach a small park, the other man drops the guitar case and crouches down, hands gripping his knees as he gasps for breath. Fitz’s position isn’t much different as he stumbles forward to snatch the case from the ground while doing everything he can to get air into his lungs. When he grabs the case, the money in it spills onto the ground and Fitz groans at the sight. He bends down to start scooping it back up, all the while trying to breathe in a full lungful of air. 

“What…” He takes a gasping breath as the word burns through his throat, “…the _fuck_ Hunter?!” 

The other man seems just as winded, if not more so, than Fitz, which is more than a little surprising considering he’d been known for his athleticism growing up. Though… Fitz isn’t sure Lance had ever attended their school matches _inebriated,_ which is likely the only thing that made the other man catchable today. 

After a few moments, Hunter stands up with his hands placed on his hips as he tilts his head towards the sky and attempts to gain control of his breathing. When his breaths are no longer ragged, he turns to Fitz with a look of apology and a pitiful shrug of the shoulders. “M’sorry mate. I made a lousy bet with Danny over at Finnie’s and needed some quick cash. I was gonna pay you back, honest!” 

Fitz, being a certified _genius,_ is well aware that Hunter most certainly would _not_ have paid him back, but the strain in his abdomen from doing more running today than in his entire life combined makes him want to get the other man out of his sight as soon as possible. He glances at the few Pounds he’d managed to earn over the course of the day and sighs in exasperation before thrusting his hand towards Hunter with an exasperated, “Bloody fucking… just, here just take it. If you need money, just ask, don’t… don’t nick my stuff. Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Yeah right, sorry mate. No more nicking your stuff.” 

Hunter gives him a beaming smile, paired with a clap on the back, and doesn’t even attempt to do the polite thing and refuse the offer. He plucks the few coins, and fewer bills, from Fitz’s hand and stuffs them in his pocket with a wink and another thumbs up. Hunter reaches forward to straighten the tie around Fitz’s neck before giving him one last clap on the shoulder and turning around in the direction of the nearest pub, calling out a jovial, “Cheers mate,” as he walks away. 

Fitz watches the other man until he disappears around the corner before plopping himself on the ground next to his case and lying down in exhaustion. His breathing is shallow and he can feel the sweat dripping down his back as he uses his hand to block the sun from his eyes. 

He replays the past few minutes and shakes his head at the joke that has become his life. 

“Bloody hell.” 

-O- 

Despite the one major hiccup, the busking seamlessly fits into his new routine and Fitz welcomes the change of pace. His schedule with Coulson is fairly lax considering he’s essentially a volunteer more than an actual employee, and the older man has been more than accommodating, encouraging Fitz to get out and play whenever he feels the urge. 

It’s a welcome change from the almost stifling rigidity that’s surrounded him for the past few years. 

He’d only pulled out his guitar on occasion in London, too busy wrapped up in schooling and _ex-_ girlfriends to focus on writing and playing, and he revels in the way that the music seems to reignite something in him that he’d long since forgotten. His mind, always active, seems to thrive with the new, rather _old,_ creative outlet and, combined with the hours working with Coulson, Fitz finds that he’s slowly re-finding himself. 

It’s a night about two weeks after Fitz’s first shot at busking that he decides to start fiddling with his _own_ music rather than the tunes that litter the popular radio stations of the world. He waits until most people have retired for the day, at home eating supper with their families, before he begins to pluck out the chords of his mind and sing their accompanying words. 

When it’s nearing midnight, with Fitz halfway through a song he’s spent the past few hours tweaking, he spots a woman who looks to be about his age peering quizzically at him from across the street. When her eyes lock onto his, Fitz’s mind goes empty for a fraction of a second and, if he hadn’t written the damn song himself, he’s sure he would have completely blanked on the next verse. 

Luckily he _did_ write the song so, instead of gaping at the woman and making a bigger fool of himself, he ducks his head quickly to focus on his hand as it dances across the frets of his guitar and continues to play, assuming that whatever caught the woman’s interest won’t keep her around for much longer. When his mind _mostly_ forgets her presence, Fitz lets himself become immersed in the music once more and shuts his eyes as his fingers move from muscle-memory alone. 

The words bring back memories that he tries to shut out when not singing, and Fitz finds that a warm flame seems to making its way through his body as he tries to infuse whatever emotion he can into the song. His voice is raw from a day spent singing covers of the popular tunes that tourists would rather hear, but Fitz enjoys the raspy sound of the final few lyrics as they escape past his lips. 

The final song of the night comes to a close and Fitz keeps his eyes shut tight to keep further memories at bay. His hands fall from the guitar and for a moment all he can hear is his own shallow breathing before the soft sound of clapping breaks him from his reverie and causes him to look up in surprise. 

The woman is closer than she was before, no longer leaning against the building across the street, and Fitz is a bit overwhelmed by the way the combined light of the nearby street lamp and moon seems to dance across her face. She looks almost ethereal in the combined natural and man-made light, and Fitz wonders for a moment if she’s even real. It’s nearly midnight and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s imagined a beautiful woman. He thinks she _must_ not be real because the woman is giving him a beaming smile that Fitz swears is the greatest thing he’s ever seen until her nose scrunches in delight and _that_ becomes the greatest thing he’s seen. 

“That was brilliant!” 

She’s looking at him with such honest enthusiasm that Fitz finds himself turning around in search of the person she must actuallybe talking to. As is often the case this late at night, there’s no one else around, which makes Fitz’s eyes widen in astonishment as he realizes that the borderline goddess in front of him is in fact speaking to _him._

His mouth opens and closes dumbly for a few moments before the woman steps forward, reaching into her pocket and tossing some loose change into his guitar case that wouldn’t even be enough for a can of Irn Bru. She still has an almost delighted smile on her face when she looks back up at him and Fitz thanks his lucky stars that she speaks before he makes an even greater fool of himself gawking at her in astonishment.

“Did you write that yourself?” 

He blinks at the question eyes flicking from the glint of silver in his case back to the young woman in front of him. Fitz stares for a few minutes, trying to understand why this stranger is talking to him, before shaking his head in an attempt to clear it long enough to actually respond. “Sorry?” 

He winces slightly as his voice, approximately three octaves higher than normal, cracks on the single word he manages to get out. The woman’s smile grows and she tilts her head slightly before nodding towards the guitar that is now hanging limply from his neck. 

“The song. Is it yours?” 

He blinks a few times, following her gaze and staring at the worn wood of his Seagull before looking back up and nodding slowly. “Y… Yeah it is.” 

Her smile grows at his response and she takes a step closer as she tilts her head again. “Is it the only one you’ve got?” 

Fitz is about to nod before he realizes that the answer is actually _no,_ this _isn’t_ the only one he’s got. He quickly shifts the movement of his head and shakes it side to side as he coughs in an attempt to clear his throat before speaking. “Umm… no. There… there are a few more.” 

His hands instinctively move to rub at the back of his neck as he prepares himself for the inevitable scoffing and derisive laughter that often follows such an admission. His eyes move to his feet and he scuffs them against the cobbled Glasgow street and he sighs as he begins to think of the best way to escape any further embarrassment. 

“Why don’t you ever play them during the day?” 

The genuine interest of her question is startling to Fitz and both his mouth and eyes widen at the sincere curiosity in her expression. 

“What?” 

His complete and utter befuddlement isn’t lost on the woman because she laughs at his expression, a melodious sound that reminds Fitz of his childhood wind chimes, and motions with her hands around the now empty street square. 

“You’re out here all day, I see you when I hand out flyers. But usually the only thing that comes out of your mouth is the same standard stuff I hear on the radio.” 

Fitz straightens slightly at her dismissal of his busking and furrows his eyebrows at the way she uses the word _standard_ to describe him. He is _anything_ but standard and doesn’t like the way that the stranger manages to use a single word to make something tighten in his chest. His blood isn’t quite boiling, but it’s _definitely_ simmering and he begins to hoist the guitar of his shoulders in an attempt to keep himself together and not get _too_ snappy with the woman. 

“Yeah well… People would rather hear songs they know.” The reply comes out sharper than he’d intended and he can see the way she flinches slightly at the underlying venom in his voice. He himself winces, not wanting to take out his own frustrations and insecurities on someone who’s simply curious, before glancing up at her and shrugging. 

“They… they wouldn’t like this kind of stuff.” 

Fitz hopes that the woman can hear the silent offer of truce in his self-deprecating assessment of his songs and thinks she actually might have when her face softens slightly and she shoots him a tentative smile that causes his arms to halt in place, holding the guitar a few inches above its case. 

“ _I_ liked it.” 

The warmth that spreads through him with her statement causes an immediate flush to break out across his face and Fitz is grateful that his rosy cheeks are hidden by the darkness of the night. He’s not quite sure how to respond and internally panics for a moment as his mind begins to whir in an attempt to give him _something_ to say. 

“Yeah I can tell…”

He peers into his guitar case as though it’s all seven wonders of the world rolled into one and then looks back at her with a sardonic twist of the lips. “70p. I can only imagine what you’d’ve spared if you _loved_ it. Might’ve managed to snag a full pound from you.”

_Fuck._

_Really?! Couldn’t have just said thank you?_

The woman seems to agree with Fitz’s internal chastising because her eyes widen for the briefest of moments before narrowing until all he can see is the smallest reflection of the streetlamp in her irises. His face reddens even more and he’s about to apologize for his idiocy when she straightens and cuts him off before he can even really begin. 

“Well, if you’re doing this for the money, I’d suggest another profession. Perhaps you should get a real job.” 

The obvious bite of her words pales in comparison to the sting of her tone and Fitz finds his defensiveness and frustration come rearing back. He’s about to inform her that he actually _isn’t_ doing this for the money since he has quite a nice chunk of change saved up from the designs and schematics he’s sold, but for some reason the words get stuck in his mouth and he instead gives her a partial truth. 

“I’ve got a job thanks very much.” 

She folds her arms across her chest at that and gives him a dubious look, still radiating tension and looking as though she’d believe in unicorns sooner than she’d believe his claim. “What, does somebody actually pay you for being sarcastic and prickly?” 

Fitz’s eyes narrow at her question and, for one reason or another, he wants to change her worsening impression of him. He’s not sure _why_ he wants to, considering she’s been just as sarcastic with _him_ as he’s been with _her,_ but he does nonetheless and begins closing the latches of his guitar case as he responds. 

“No. I actually work in a shop ‘round the corner. Fixing watches and clocks mostly but… I like to tinker and every once in awhile I manage to get my hands on some cooler gadgets that need tweaking.” 

It’s silent for another few moments and Fitz assumes that he’s bored the woman enough with his shop talk that she’s made the wise decision to walk away. Instead, when he stands back up and swings his guitar over his shoulder, the woman’s eyes are fixed on him with an indescribable expression across her face. 

It’s an odd mixture of what Fitz would describe as excitement and hopefulness and stays fixed in place when she takes a step forward. 

“You fix watches?” 

Now she _sounds_ both eager and hopeful and Fitz wonders what the hell his fixing watches has gotten her so excited about. He peers down at her, one hand moving to grip his guitar strap while the other shifts to rub at his neck, and answers her question with a tentative sort of honesty. 

“Yes…” 

Her eyes light up at his answer and she takes _yet another_ step towards him reaching out as if to touch him before pulling her hand away and grasping it with her other. “Really?!” 

_Well now this is just getting redundant._

Fitz rolls his eyes slightly and shifts his guitar before nodding in exasperation. “Yes! I’ve only _just_ said as mu…” 

“Pocket watches?” 

She cuts him off before he can even finish his sentence and Fitz blinks at the hopeful desperation that seems to coat her words. His mind flits back through all of the repairs he’s done before he nods his head again in the affirmative. 

“Umm… yeah I’ve fixed a few in my day.” 

Whatever tension had been between the two of them seems to dissipate instantly at his words as the girl visibly transforms before him. Her eyes light up in excitement and she shifts so close that, even in the darkness, he can make out the few freckles that scatter her nose. Her excitement is still in place but Fitz can sense an almost nervous energy around her as she looks at him imploringly and says, “Would you… I mean, do you think you might be able to repair mine?” 

His mouth drops open in surprise at the slight desperation behind her question and he finds himself once again blinking repeatedly as his mind processes her words. The woman seems to note his shock because she powers forward with a rush of words before he can even think about _answering_ said question. 

“It’s just… I’ve taken it to a few shops but nobody’s been able to help me. Most of them have told me it’s a bit of a lost cause but… It belonged to my grandfather and I just…” 

Her voice grows softer with each word until her words just peter off, the unspoken emotion left hanging thickly in the air between them. Fitz doesn’t actually _need_ her to finish her sentence because the words she doesn’t say are ones that he feels he knows all too well. This girl’s plea to salvage something that carries an emotional weight strikes a chord in Fitz and he finds himself nodding slowly as he tries to catch her gaze again. 

Her eyes are focused on the ground, glazed over as if she’s a million miles away, and her hands are twisting in front of her in what Fitz thinks must be her equivalent to his rubbing of the neck. She doesn’t look like she’s going to look up anytime soon, possibly to afraid to face possible rejection, so Fitz clears his throat to get her attention. 

“Yeah I can take a look at it.” 

Her head snaps up so quickly that Fitz takes a startled step backwards. The smile on her face is the widest he’s seen to date and her eyes manage to shine despite the darkness of the night. “Really?!” 

Fitz can’t help but smile at her renewed enthusiasm, nodding his head in the hopes that it’ll keep the grin on her face in place. 

“Yeah, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to _fix_ it but… I’ll certainly give it a go.” 

Fitz wonders what it means that he silently hopes that he _will_ be able to fix an old watch for a beaming stranger he’s only just met. 

“Tomorrow?” 

He blinks in surprise at her forwardness and just barely manages to stutter out, “Oh. Well… Yeah I suppose I can tom…” before she’s cutting him off with an excited round of clapping. 

“Great! I’ll bring it sometime in the afternoon! Will you be here or…” 

She points at some vague point down the street and Fitz realizes that she’s likely alluding to his actual job. She’d said _afternoon_ , meaning he won’t be in the shop, so he nods his head and confirms that he’ll likely be busking whenever she decides to track him down. 

“Yeah, I’ll be here. Or… around here. Definitely in the vicinity. Just… just follow the warbling.” 

He gives her another self-deprecating grin and she meets it with a far warmer and sincere smile. She releases a small laugh and shakes her head before moving away from him, walking backwards out of the light until she’s immersed in the shadows. Fitz can’t see her clearly, but for some reason he’s convinced she’s smiling when she says, “I’ll follow the _music._ ” 

-O- 

As promised, the girl appears again the next day, brown eyes almost golden in the harsh summer sunlight, and Fitz stumbles a verse in the song he’s singing when he spots her weaving her way across the busy street. There are only a few stragglers around him by the time she hovers in his periphery, but some of the local teens that hang on the stoop next to the one he plays in front of laugh about his flubbing of the lyrics, and Fitz feels his cheeks grow red as he embarrassedly tells them piss off. 

Instead of trying to salvage the last of, “Quiet Little Voices,” Fitz huffs in equal parts exasperation and embarrassment as he yanks his battered guitar off his neck, strap getting tangled around his tie in the process. The kids laugh even more at this and Fitz takes the time to flip each of them the bird before shoving his guitar into its worn case, ignoring the pang of disappointment that shoots through him at the sight of the roughly three Pounds that this morning’s playing had earned him. 

Apparently mystery girl considers his packing up to be some sort of visual cue, because when Fitz stands up she’s only a foot away with a beaming grin on her face. He barely gets the guitar over his shoulder before she’s thrusting a gold pocket watch into his hands and all but vibrating from excitement. 

Fitz looks at the watch for a fraction of a second before shoving it back at her and saying, “I haven’t got my tools on me.” 

She either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care about his statement because she just pushes his hand away and says, “But you _will_ take a look at it, right?” 

Fitz blinks at her a few times, head tilting in confusion, and wonders what it is she misunderstood. “Well… yeah, but I… I can’t _here._ ” 

She looks as though she’s about to say something so Fitz quickly stops her and all but shouts,“I haven’t got my stuff!” 

“Calm down, I’m only asking!” The woman raises her hands in defense before shaking her head and looking at him as though he’s confessed to believing in ghosts. The look she’s giving him makes Fitz feel a bit like a dunce, so he ducks his head and shuffles his feet a bit as he considers the matter dropped. 

“Well… Okay then.” 

It’s silent for a few moments before the woman reaches out and extracts the watch from where it’s still loosely gripped in his hand. Fitz assumes he’s mucked everything up and she plans on leaving, but ends up being surprised when she gently tugs at his guitar strap and says, “C’mon,” before nodding her head for him to follow as she walks away. 

“C’mon what?” 

“We’re going to lunch.” 

“What?! _Why?_ ” 

“Because I’ve been walking around handing out flyers all afternoon and I’m _hungry._ And _you’ve_ been singing all morning and I would assume that _you’re_ hungry as well. So, we’re going to lunch, we’re going to eat some food, and you’re going to take a look at my watch.” 

“I haven’t got my…” 

“Yes I _know. You haven’t got your tools._ I said you’re going to take a _look_ at it, not that you’re going to pry the thing open and fix it using your bare hands.” 

He _knows_ he shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t press this woman’s buttons anymore than he already has, but Fitz can’t stop himself from muttering, “I happen to _like_ fixing things with my bare hands,” quietly under his breath. 

“For crying out…” She pauses for a moment to take a deep breath, rubbing at her temples in a way that makes Fitz want to pat her on the back, before continuing forward with what sounds more like a groan than anything else.

“Will you just… _look_ at the watch?” 

Fitz, knowing that he’s likely one poor comment away from getting shoved into traffic, shoots her a grin and adjusts the guitar on his shoulder before rolling his eyes and sighing in feigned exasperation. “Well of _course_ I will. I said I would didn’t I?” 

She comes to a halt at this and looks up at him with an expression of frustration that instantly causes a chuckle to escape his mouth. The sound causes her to narrow her eyes and walk past him with an irritated huff. “For Pete’s sake. C’mon Busker, let’s go.” 

They walk in silence to a little café that Fitz has never been to, and likely won’t return to considering the glare the manager gives him when he knocks over a salt shaker with his guitar while trying to navigate between the tables, and remain in silence until about five minutes into the actual meal.

“So, prickly busker, have you got a name?” 

He’s loathe to admit that he actually _does_ prickle slightly at the woman’s question, more accurately at her _description_ of him, and shortly replies with, “Fitz,” before she notices his physical reaction and teases him about it. 

She tilts her head in question as she sips at her drink and looks at him speculatively. He’s not entirely sure what it is she’s looking _at_ , so he just takes another bite of his burger and waits for whatever her next question will be. 

“Fitz? Is that a _real_ name?” 

He pulls away from the fries he was about to stuff in his mouth and gives her an affronted look that he pairs with an indignant, “Of course it’s a real name!” 

She doesn’t say a word, instead opting for raising an eyebrow and giving him another look as she steals the fries out of his hands. He stares at her in surprise, eyes flitting between his now empty hand and her chewing mouth, and drops his mouth open as he processes the fact that she _just stole his food._

_And then ate it._

He splutters for a few moments and contemplates some sort of retaliation but she ordered a damn _salad,_ which is _not_ something he’d ever want to steal. Instead he just petulantly scoops up another handful of fries and mutters, “It’s not necessarily my _first_ name but… It’s preferred.” 

She hums in understanding at this and resumes eating her rabbit food, leaving Fitz to ponder just what kind of person he’s having lunch with. They eat in silence for a few moments before Fitz realizes that he still doesn’t even know _who_ he’s eating with. He thinks for a moment, trying to figure out the best way of turning her question around on her before deciding to just go for it. 

“What about you flyer girl, have _you_ got a name?” 

Her nose wrinkles slightly at, “flyer girl,” and Fitz grins slightly at the fact that he seems just as capable as getting under her skin as she is at getting under his. She glances up and must be able to read his smugness because she rolls her eyes with a slight huff that only makes Fitz’s smile grow. 

“Jemma.” 

_Jemma_

He mulls the name over in his mind and can’t help but think that it suits her. There’s a brightness to this girl that seems more than a little similar to the shimmering of gems in the sunlight.

He doesn’t _say_ this of course, instead responding with a non-committal hum that he hopes she’ll understand means a change of topic. She seems to comprehend because she shifts slightly on her chair and stares at him with that same eager hopefulness from last night. “Would you take a look at my watch now?” 

Fitz glances at his greasy hands and looks back up at her with an incredulous expression. She seems to understand his silent implication because her shoulders slump slightly in disappointment. 

“After lunch. I _promise._ I’ll take you to the shop and you can look at my hardware. I mean my _equipment_ … my _tools…_ Oh god. I’m just gonna…” 

He shoves his burger into his mouth to stop any other words from leaving his mouth, face and ears turning a brilliant shade of red as Jemma begins to giggle hysterically at his idiocy. After nearly a minute of trying to stop laughing long enough to respond, Jemma gives up and instead opts for a nod of comprehension. 

They spend the next ten minutes finishing their respective meals in a companionable silence that Fitz doesn’t think has any right to feel so comfortable considering how short they’ve known each other and how many times he’s made a fool of himself. 

-O- 

After lunch, they aimlessly walk around the neighborhood for a bit with a careful foot of space separating them until Jemma suddenly grabs Fitz’s hand and tugs him into a nearby shop. It’s _so_ quick that he doesn’t even get a look at the sign above the door before it’s closing behind him and he’s finding himself awkwardly standing in a music store, instruments littering the walls and floor space and records in every crevasse. 

The shop must be new, or at least have been built after Fitz first left for London, because he’s never so much as seen it let alone _come into_ it. Jemma on the other hand seems to know the place like the back of her hand based on the friendly wave she gives the shopkeeper and the ease with which she weaves through the larger instruments that litter the floor. 

She walks about five feet before she turns around and gives Fitz a look of exasperation that screams, “ _Well_ , are you coming?” 

He chances a glance at the man behind the small counter who just waves his hand dismissively and says, “Just follow her man.” 

Fitz doesn’t have to be told twice. 

Though… perhaps Jemma’s look of exasperation _and_ the nonchalant command given by the shopkeeper means he actually _did_ need to be told twice. 

Either way, he scurries after Jemma and marvels as she effortlessly moves through the shop with a determination that makes Fitz think she has a specific destination that she’s leading him to. When she disappears behind a corner, Fitz hustles to catch up and then pulls up short when he sees her sitting at a gleaming grand piano. Her fingers are gently running over the keys and she’s looking at the ivory with a reverence that seems to perfectly encapsulate Fitz’s own feelings when in the presence of such stunning instruments. 

She glances at him above the piano and shoots him a mischievous grin before her hands suddenly begin to fly over the keys and create a stunning melody that causes the air to whoosh from Fitz’s lungs. He stares in awe as he watches Jemma lose herself in the tune and feels much like a fish out of water as his mouth gapes open when she turns to him, not looking at her fingers as they continue to play, and strikes up a conversation. 

“I’ve always felt rather uncomfortable with my father. We’ve never really understood each other all that well, not much in common, you know?” 

Fitz nods his head before she even finishes the question, all too aware of what it feels like to not know or understand a father, and Jemma nods slightly before continuing. 

“But he’s a wonderful violinist and one day he let me watch him play. I bumped into a book on the table and it fell on the ground. Completely threw him off. He turned around, all cross and frazzled, and lectured me about how music is sacred and should never be interrupted. He was so upset and I started to cry, I was quite young- maybe four or five- and he just ushered me out in the direction of my mother. He didn’t say anything but it was pretty clear that he wouldn’t let me listen again anytime soon, if at all.” 

Fitz is struggling to figure out what to look at. His eyes flit between Jemma’s moving fingers as they run along the piano, and her moving lips as she tells him this story from her childhood, before landing on her eyes and staying there as they light up with a startling brightness. 

“But I already _knew_ music was sacred. I would press my ear to the door anytime he’d play and… I just never had the courage to ask to listen again.” 

She pauses for a moment, ducking her head down to focus on her hands, but Fitz is now invested in learning whatever he can about her and can’t stop himself from moving closer and asking, “What happened after?” 

Jemma looks up again with a grin and rolls her eyes slightly, either at him or the memory, but continues speaking as the music fades to background noise behind her own melodic voice. “I ran to my mother, snot and tears running all up and down my face, and all but demanded that she get me a piano tutor.” 

She laughs at the memory and Fitz can almost picture a young Jemma, hands fisted at her waist, and defiantly staring down an older version of her. 

“Anyways, I spent _years_ learning and playing, when I was home for my sixteenth birthday I heard my father’s violin again. By this point I was even more stubborn, mostly just wanting _any_ approval, and decided to prove to him that I knew how precious music was. I marched into his study, sat down at the piano in the corner, figured out he was playing Chopin’s Nocturne, and joined in without saying a word.” 

She pauses again as the piece she’s playing grows a bit more complex but Fitz is just as hooked on her memory as he is on the music, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

“And you messed him up again?” 

Fitz winces slightly at the thought but Jemma just laughs and shakes her head as her eyes light up. “He didn’t miss a _single_ note. It was like I wasn’t even there. He kept playing beautifully, with me accompanying him, and didn’t even acknowledge that an instrument _other_ than the violin was being played. Then when we finished, he turned around with tears in his eyes and looked at me, _really_ looked at me. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.” 

She abruptly stops playing, eyebrows furrowing for a moment, before she looks back up at him with a smaller smile than before. They’re silent for a long moment, simply staring at each other as though both know that they’ve found a kindred spirit in the other. 

Fitz is about to tell Jemma that music was the only thing that made his mother happy after his father left, and that he taught himself to play the guitar just because he wanted to make her smile, but the words get caught in his throat and the moment passes him by.

Jemma’s contemplative expression changes almost immediately, setting Fitz on high alert, and she stares at him challengingly before quirking her head towards the guitar hanging off his shoulder. “Go on then.” 

Fitz’s eyes widen slightly and he shifts under her stare. “Wh…what?” 

Jemma rolls her eyes slightly at his confusion before suddenly transforming her face into what Fitz could only realistically associate with a small puppy begging for a treat. “Oh c’mon Fitz! Play something for me! Play one of _yours_ for me.” 

His cheeks flush red almost immediately, partially because the thought of playing his music for her make him want to run away in panic, and partially because a warmth spreads through him at the knowledge that someone like Jemma, who’s only _just_ finished playing Bach from memory, would actually request to hear something of _his._  

“Oh… no that’s… not… no. Here?” 

He glances around at the empty store, suddenly feeling very much inadequate with his worn clothes and even more worn guitar. Jemma waves her hand dismissively, clearly not understanding that his hesitancy is _also_ largely caused by the sudden smallness he feels when beside her. 

“Of course here! They don’t care, Max lets me play whenever I want. You said you don’t play your music because nobody wants to hear it. I _want_ to hear it Fitz. Just one, please?” 

She slides over on the piano bench to make room for him to sit and Fitz casts another anxious glance in the direction of the shopkeeper before straightening and facing Jemma again. He thinks back to what Coulson told him about trying things he actually _wanted_ and decides that Jemma might just be the person to make him bold enough to go for it. 

“Only if you don’t mine joining in. It is a duet after all.” 

The smile that blossoms across her face causes that same warmth within him to grow again and Fitz bites his lip to stop himself from grinning as he sits down next to her and pulls his guitar from its case. He grabs the battered notebook tucked in the pocket and tentatively pulls out a few sheets of music that are littered with his messy scrawl. He shoots Jemma a shy look and ducks his head when he sees the unbridled encouragement in her own expression. 

“Okay umm… the… the first bit is like this.” 

Fitz hums the notes to the song he’s mentally titled _Falling Slowly_ and watches as Jemma nods along, eyes focused on his lips as her fingers pluck out the corresponding notes on the piano. 

“Have… have you got it?” 

Jemma doesn’t answer so much as shoot him a look that Fitz understands is a definitive _yes_ so he hums the next part, then the next, and finally the chorus, casting Jemma furtive glances every few seconds to verify that she’s still following along.

When he’s finished humming the entirety of the song, Jemma nods her head and cracks her neck as a look of determination crosses her face. She wiggles her fingers for a moment before glancing at Fitz, who swallows down his nerves and begins to play the first few chords on his guitar. He plays the opening alone the first go around before the soft sound of the piano joins in, Jemma’s hands moving gracefully across the keys as Fitz’s own fingers dance along the frets. 

_“I don’t know you, but I want you…”_

Fitz sings softly, still wary of playing his own music, on his own instrument, in a damn _music store,_ but the words come easily and he can feel the nerves and anxiety abate almost immediately when a distinctly feminine voice joins his. 

Their voices blend together in a way that floors Fitz and he chances a glance at Jemma to see if the sound is having just as much as an impact on her. Her eyes are focused on the sheet music in front of her, scanning through his chicken scratch, but they glance over to meet his quickly and in the brief second that brown eyes meet blue, Fitz knows that Jemma’s father had been right. 

“ _Falling slowly, eyes that know me, and I can’t go back_ …” 

_This_ is sacred. _They’re_ sacred. 

“ _And moods that take me and erase me, and I'll paint it black.”_  

They sing in complete synchrony, voices harmonizing as though they were made to, and Fitz finds himself becoming completely and utterly lost in the song and Jemma. 

“ _Falling slowly sing your melody. I'll sing along, along. Baby, why don't you come home?”_  

Their voices fade as they play the last notes on their respective instruments and Fitz is left in stunned silence as he processes the fact that _that was his._

_He_ wrote that. 

He feels a surge of pride at the thought and it swells infinitesimally when Jemma softly says, “That was beautiful Fitz.” 

He turns to face her and is startled by how close their faces are. They’d somehow gravitated closer together on the piano bench, now a few scant millimeters apart, and Fitz can’t help but think that if _that_ music is beautiful, then Jemma is absolutely stunning. 

He blushes at the thought, not certain how someone he’s known for less than a day has already had such an impact on him, cheeks reddening as he ducks his head. Luckily, Jemma must attribute his rosy cheeks to embarrassment from her compliment, because she moves her hand to squeeze his forearm lightly. 

“Truly, Fitz. It was beautiful.” 

He gives her a small smile of thanks, replaying the last few minutes in his mind, before saying with utmost confidence, “Yes well, mostly thanks to you. Me on my own wouldn’t have sounded half as nice. We’re… we’re better together.” 

Jemma looks as though she might argue but she seems to stop herself when she really looks at him and sees the sincerity in his eyes. Her cheeks pinken slightly, still nowhere near as dark as his, and Fitz marvels at the sight. They stare at each other for a few long moments, both at a loss for words, before jumping away from each other in surprise at the sound of a throat being cleared. 

The shopkeeper is standing a few feet away with an apologetic look as he says, “Sorry guys. I’m about to take a late lunch and need to lock up.” 

“Not at all Max, we’ll be on our way. Thanks again!” 

Fitz nods along with Jemma’s words and hastily shoves his music and guitar back in the case before hoisting the instrument over his shoulder and dutifully following Jemma towards the exit. 

He knows that _Max_ was apologizing for kicking them out, but Fitz can’t help but wonder if the other man’s slight grimace of regret was _also_ due to thinking he was interrupting a moment that Fitz isn’t 100% sure existed in the first place. 

-O- 

They’re sitting on the bus headed towards the watch shop, Fitz aimlessly strumming his guitar and Jemma perusing the sheet music that she’d convinced him to hand over. 

“So why the angst?” 

Jemma’s question breaks him from his reverie and Fitz glances at her in slight confusion, hoping that she might elaborate so he can give her the appropriate answer. 

“Sorry?” 

She holds up the sheet music he’d let her peruse through and quirks an eyebrow at the multiple scribbles that look as though they were written by a Tasmanian devil on a jet ski. 

Fitz hums in understanding and shrugs slightly before shifting his guitar and strumming a few random chords before glancing over at Jemma sing-shouting, “ _Well… I caught my girlfriend fucking my flatmate_ …” 

Jemma’s eyes widen and she claps a hand over his mouth as she shoots the only other passenger on the bus, an elderly woman who seems more amused than affronted, an apologetic look. She’s biting her lip and Fitz can see the hint of a grin so he keeps up the strumming and whispers the made-up lyrics to this impromptu song. 

“ _Not my idea of a fun date_ …” 

“ _Good ol’ Bakshi… stabbed me in the back, you see_ …” 

“ _Left me shattered_ … 

“ _Broken and battered_ …” 

“ _But it doesn’t much matter, cause I’m in Glasgow with Jemma_ … 

“ _Who seems mad as hatter_ …” 

He breaks off in laughter when said mad hatter shoves him with an affronted huff and a roll of the eyes, crossing her arms in front of her and staring out the window in feigned annoyance. Normally he’d be quick to apologize, but Jemma’s stifling giggles so Fitz opts for a warm grin instead. She mirrors it quickly before sobering slightly and fixing Fitz with a look that makes him think she can read him as easily as she would a primary-level schoolbook. 

Her giggles peter off and they’re left in a comfortable silence, interrupted occasionally by Fitz’s strumming. After a few minutes, he sees Jemma turn to him in his periphery and stare at him analytically before asking, “Is that true?” 

Fitz is well aware which _that_ Jemma’s referring to, but there’s still enough hurt and embarrassment over the whole Raina debacle that Fitz chooses to intentionally misunderstand the question. “That you’re a complete loon? As far as I can tell.” 

He gives her a grin that widens when she bumps his shoulder with her own. It’s when she softly says his name and then quirks an eyebrow that Fitz decides to just give her what she’s angling for. He shrugs in response to her silent question, ducking his head so she can’t read him any more than she already has, and fiddles with the pegs on his guitar for something to do. 

For a moment nothing happens but then suddenly her hand is over his and it’s a little cold, but soft and comforting nonetheless. She squeezes his hand once, a silent _I’m sorry_ , before pulling away and looking out the window in a clear gesture of giving him space and time to think. 

She probably assumes he’ll take the opportunity to ruminate over the failed relationship and the bitter feelings that he still has, but all Fitz can _actually_ think about is the fact that Jemma’s cold fingers had somehow left a trail of heat behind. 

-O- 

When the bus pulls up to their stop, Fitz tugs at Jemma’s blouse and nods his head for her to follow him. He manages to smack a few seats with his guitar as he makes his way down the narrow aisle of the bus and is grateful that he hadn’t managed to clock the little old lady while he was at it. 

Jemma, of _course,_ is far more graceful in her movements and follows closely behind without any sort of embarrassing hiccup. 

Once off the bus, Fitz’s hand hovers at the small of Jemma’s back as he guides her to the little shop on the corner. His cheeks are a flaming red as a result of his own forwardness, but they’ve been basking in a comfortable silence since his _minor_ outburst on the bus and Fitz isn’t quite yet ready to break it with his inane babble. So he continues forward, gently pushing Jemma along, and does his very best to be the perfect gentleman as he tries not to let his mind marvel too much at their proximity. 

When they make it to the entrance of the shop, Fitz pushes the door open, holding it for Jemma and letting her tentatively step into the main room. He follows closely behind and glances around the storefront in search for the owner. 

“Coulson?” 

It’s not quite a shout, but Fitz knows it’s still loud enough that the older man _should_ be able to hear him if he’s anywhere in the vicinity. He waits for a moment and then grins when he hears a slightly faint, “Back here!” 

Much like Jemma in the music store, Fitz knows Coulson’s Cogs better than he knows almost anything else and he weaves through the large clocks and display cases in main room, heading towards the workshop in back and motioning for Jemma to follow. 

When they get there, Fitz sees Coulson hunched over his little worktable in the corner and chuckles slightly at the enormous magnification goggles that the other man is wearing to better see the small parts of the wristwatch he’s fixing. 

“I thought it was a full day of busking today?” 

Coulson turns around, pushing the glasses off his face as he does, and straightens immediately at the sight of Jemma hovering just behind Fitz. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had company.” Coulson stands at the sight of said company and gives Fitz a rather significant look that instantly makes his ears turn red. 

“Oh no it’s not like… this is my fr… this is Jemma. She’s having some trouble with her watch and I told her I’d take a look at it for her.” 

Jemma steps around him at the introduction and extends her hand towards Coulson. “Pleased to meet you Mr… Coulson I presume, based on the sign and Fitz’s yelling.” 

Coulson releases an amused grin at this and quickly takes Jemma’s hand in his own, shaking it with a firm enthusiasm that tells Fitz that the older man already approves of her. “You presume correctly Jemma.” 

He turns to give Fitz a look that, though silent, is screaming, “Nice going,” and Fitz’s cheeks redden at the sight as he rubs his neck in embarrassment, hoping that Jemma hadn’t noticed the silent exchange. 

It seems as though he’s lucked out because Jemma’s eyes are focused neither on himself or Coulson, instead flitting around the small room and taking in all of the scattered parts and pieces that litter every available surface. Fitz surreptitiously moves to block his own workspace, which is approximately ninety times messier than Coulson’s, and sighs in relief when the older man claps his hands and gets Jemma’s attention. 

“Now, let’s see this watch you’re having trouble with! Is it of English origin as well? Or is it a _bit_ more foreign in nature?” 

Jemma laughs at the question before reaching into her small bag and extracting an even _smaller_ velvet drawstring from its confines. She hands the smaller sack to Coulson, who gingerly reaches in and pulls out the pocket watch that Jemma had so desperately asked Fitz to fix. 

The older man whistles at the sight of the gold object and widens his eyes slightly as he reads the small hallmark along the edge. Fitz leans over to get a look as well and Coulson holds it up so that he can better read the signage. Fitz blinks at the tiny inscription, mouth opening slightly, and suddenly wonders what the hell Jemma needs to pass out flyers for when she has a Parkinson and Frodsham in her possession. 

Coulson doesn’t let his initial surprise slow him down because in the next second he’s beaming at Jemma and chuckling out an, “I suppose that answers that! From your native England indeed.” 

“It was my grandfather’s.” 

Fitz already knew this of course, but hearing the past tense of the words spoken so softly in the day makes him understand even more why Jemma might be so keen on fixing the heirloom. 

“Don’t worry Jemma. If anyone can fix this, it’s Coulson.” 

He doesn’t miss the touched look that the older man gives him and, never one for getting overly emotional, Fitz leans forward to audibly whisper, “He’s actually quite smart… for an _American,_ ” in Jemma’s ear. 

She releases a bark of laughter that instantly wipes the worried expression from her face and Coulson staggers backward, clutching his hand to his heart as though Fitz had stabbed him. 

“Oh, oh you wound me Fitz. You may be the genius child prodigy…” 

Jemma’s head snaps up at this, her eyes widening as she turns to face him, and Fitz focuses his attention on Coulson so that he can’t overthink the attention that _Jemma_ is now paying _him._  

“…but I have something even better.”

Fitz crosses his arms, still aware of Jemma’s gaze, and quirks a challenging eyebrow at Coulson. “What’s that old man?” 

He already knows the answer because he and Coulson have done this dance enough times for Fitz to easily mouth, “Experience,” in perfect time as the word leaves the older man’s mouth. 

Fitz rolls his eyes at Jemma, hoping that it might cause a smile to wipe away the curious look she’s giving him, and grins in triumph when it does just that. Her smile grows even larger when Coulson reaches over and thwacks him on the head. He grumbles slightly for both of their benefit before nodding his head towards the workbench and immediately snapping Coulson back to attention. The older man turns to Jemma with a smile and holds up the watch with an excited glint in his eyes. 

“Well, let’s take a look shall we?” 

-O- 

Nearly three hours later Fitz and Coulson are still huddled over the gold watch, noses nearly pressed against each other as they carefully make note of every piece they’d taken out and put back in. Fitz has been speaking a mile a minute, listing all of the things that were making the watch dysfunctional, and Coulson is now nodding along. 

“Hmm… Yes you’re right. The parts shouldn’t be too hard to find, but we’ll definitely need to order them. I’m afraid we won’t be able to have this thing ticking tonight Jemma…” 

The men look up at Jemma, whom Fitz is pretty sure sold two pieces in the main room while he and Coulson were huddled up in the back, and simultaneously give her a look of apology for the inconvenience. 

She looks a bit disheartened at the verdict and Coulson is quick to complete his sentence so as to not bring her mood down too much. “…but once Fitz has all the proper parts, he’ll have this thing working in no time!” 

This gets a small smile from Jemma and Fitz feels something clench in his chest when she shoots it in his direction. He’s a little perturbed by how much he wants to _keep_ her smiling and decides that the best course of action is to simply not dwell on it. He turns to Coulson with an incredulous look and says, “Once _I_ have the parts? I was under the impression this was _your_ shop.” 

Coulson rolls his eyes at this and looks at Jemma with an expression that screams, “Can you believe this guy?” He proceeds to wave his hand dismissively in Fitz’s direction as he begins to clean up the tools and say, “Don’t even try that Fitz. We both know that you’re itching to get your hands on this without me in the way. And there’s no need to start your feigned modesty bit either, we’re not falling for it. You’re good, you know you’re good, _I_ know you’re good. At this point _Jemma_ probably knows you’re good as well.” 

He pauses to take a glance at the woman in question who just nods her head encouragingly and says, “Yes, I’ve noticed he’s quite good with his hands.” 

Coulson’s eyes widen at this and Fitz chokes on thin air while Jemma flushes a bright red and frantically waves her hands. “No, no that’s not what… I meant… because of the _guitar._ I know he’s quite good with his hands because of how well he plays the _guitar_.” 

Coulson chuckles at Jemma’s mortification but Fitz is still working on the whole, “breathing,” thing so he can’t stop this conversation before _just_ a little too much is revealed. 

“Oh! Have you heard him play?” 

Jemma shoots Coulson an appreciative look at the shift of focus off of her vocal slip and nods eagerly in response. 

“Yes! He’s quite good with his covers but I…” Jemma pauses for a moment to turn her head and smile at him before continuing forward, keeping her eyes on Fitz the entire time. “…I prefer his originals.” 

Coulson nods along with this, absentmindedly cleaning up the workspace and Fitz sighs in relief when it seems that the conversation is over. He’s just about to offer to help see Jemma home when Coulson, the complete and utter traitor that he is, casually says, “You should listen to his CD then.” 

_Oh no._  

Fitz’s eyes widen at this and he begins to vehemently shake his head at the older man who stares at him in confusion until Jemma all but shrieks, “There’s a _CD?!”_

“Oh bloody hell.” Fitz buries his head in his hands and hopes that his inability to see the others will mean that _they_ can’t see him and won’t be able to continue this conversation. 

“A _CD?!”_

Jemma’s second exclamation causes Fitz to groan, because he knows full well that, now that she _knows_ he’s recorded some of his music, he won’t be able to stop her from listening to it. He looks up at Coulson in betrayal and narrows his eyes when the man gives a smirk, shrugs his shoulders, and insincerely says, “Oops?” 

-O-

 “Sorry for the mess. I… I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” 

Fitz hastily snatches some dirty clothes off his bedroom floor and shoves them into the hamper that he hasn’t touched since coming home. His cheeks are a fiery red and he’s fairly certain that they won’t lose their color until Jemma is gone. 

For her part, Jemma seems wholly amused by the situation, smiling at his haphazard cleaning of his room and laughing outright when she sits on his bed and holds up a pair of boxers that Fitz snatches from her grasp with a mortified groan. 

He quickly adds the offending article to the hamper before moving towards his stereo in a bid to avoid eye contact with Jemma. 

“This umm… most of this is shit. And a lot of it is just melodies and such, you know, just instrumentals. I haven’t gotten a chance to add the lyrics to all of them and… well they’re lousy anyway. And I recorded this in here so it’s… don’t expect good quality or anyth…”

“Fitz!” 

Jemma’s voice cuts him off mid-sentence and he turns around, startled, to find her giving him a look that is equal parts exasperated and encouraging. 

“Relax! This isn’t some audition for X Factor. It’s just _me._ ”

_Exactly_. 

Fitz doesn’t tell her that, for some reason, it being _her_ is what’s causing his nerves to triple, and instead nods his head with a sigh and hits play on the stereo, cringing as the first few notes begin to play through the speakers. 

He moves to sit next to Jemma on his bed and carefully keeps his eyes glued to his fiddling hands so that he doesn’t have to see her face as she listens to his music. 

They don’t say anything as the CD moves from one track to the next and Fitz feels his heart begin to hammer in his chest when _Falling Slowly_ begins to play. He can’t help but think back to earlier when Jemma’s voice had joined his in perfect synchrony. The flood of warmth and emotion that had filled him in that little music shop returns to him now and he doesn’t even try to stop himself from moving his head to look at Jemma. 

Her eyes are closed as she listens to his voice croon about love and Fitz is struck by how serene she is. He can only see her profile but it’s enough for Fitz to realize that Jemma, with her hair is hanging loosely by her cheeks, is without a doubt the most beautiful woman that he’s seen. 

It feels a bit like an out of body experience when Fitz sees his hand lift up and tuck the hair behind her ear, fingers lightly grazing her cheek and breath coming in short. The contact causes Jemma to turn her head towards him as her eyes fly open in surprise. Fitz shifts slightly, thumb grazing the apple of Jemma’s cheek, and leans in with the intention of kissing her to the sound of his own music. 

He doesn’t get very far before Jemma is standing up, causing Fitz to lose his balance and topple forward on the bed, and staring at him with an expression that Fitz _knows_ isn’t good. 

“What are you doing?”

Fitz blinks owlishly at her for a moment before slowly rising to his feet and rubbing at his already warm neck. “I umm… well I thought…” 

Jemma’s eyes narrow at this and she takes a step forward, jabbing him in the chest with her finger as she says, “You thought that me saying I wanted to listen to your music was code for me wanting to _sleep_ with you?!” 

Fitz’s eyes widen at her words and he hastily tries to fix what he’d so obviously managed to muck up. “What?! No! I just… I got… You were…” 

His bumbling sounds pathetic in _his_ ears and must sound downright idiotic to Jemma because she pushes him _just_ hard enough to cause him to fall back on his bed, and spins on her heel before marching out of his room with an angry, “Fuck this Fitz.” 

He hurriedly stands up and moves to follow her, to apologize for trying to kiss her, but is too much of a complete and utter klutz to catch her before she makes it to the front entrance. “Jemma wait! I’m sor…” 

His words are cut off by the slamming of the door and Fitz groans in dismay at his idiocy before stomping back to his room, yanking the cord to the stereo out of the wall and leaving the flat in a silence filled with regret.

-O- 

Fitz spends much of the next morning and afternoon with his eyes scanning the people on the street in the hopes that he might see Jemma within the crowd. 

He doesn’t, o _f course,_ and when the clock across the square strikes five, Fitz decides that she’s likely avoiding this area, and more importantly _him._ Of course, he can’t very well _apologize_ to someone if they’re not around, so Fitz packs up his guitar for the day and sets off to find Jemma. 

He vaguely knows the route that some of the other flyer-distributors walk and decides to just hope that he might get lucky. He ambles up and down the Glasgow street for nearly two hours before he spots a familiar head of chestnut hair and scurries through the throngs of people so that he can catch her in a moment where she’s actually stationary. 

He’s a bit breathless when he finally pulls up in front of her and breathes out a rather panty, “Hi,” before putting his hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. 

Even with his head a good two feet lower than usual, Fitz can see the way that Jemma stiffens slightly at his clearly _unwelcome_ presence. 

“Hello.” 

Her tone is clipped and when Fitz straightens to his full height he sees that she is resolutely refusing to look at him, instead focused on handing out the bright pink flyers in her hands. It’s pretty clear that he has an extremely limited window to actually apologize, so he doesn’t waste any time and shifts slightly, eyes focused on his feet as his hand rubs nervously at his neck. 

“I’m sorry.” 

This seems to be the right thing to say because the moment the words leave his mouth, Jemma quits the pretense of trying to hand out the paper and turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah? What for?” 

He knows it’s a rhetorical question, he and Jemma _both_ know what he’s apologizing for, but he _also_ knows that this is the opportunity to get a bit more specific and be as sincere as possible. 

“I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you. That was wrong of me and I _honestly_ amsorry for making you uncomfortable in any way. I’m just… I’m really lonely and you’re gorgeous and I fucked up. Won’t happen again.” 

Jemma’s lips quirk upward at this in what could _almost_ be classified as a smile before she carefully schools her features again, crossing her arms and raising a skeptical eyebrow. Fitz can tell that she doesn’t necessarily believe him and decides that the only course of action is to hold his hand over his heart and invoke as much earnest sincerity as possible in the home stretch of his apology. 

“Honest. I _promise._ No funny business just… friendship? Maybe? Hopefully? And partners! I need someone to be brutally honest with me about this junk.” 

He holds up the CD he’s brought along as a peace offering, silently praying that it does the trick, and sighs in relief when Jemma narrows her eyes slightly before reaching out and taking the proffered object from his hand. She stares at it in silence for a few moments and then looks up at him with that same arched eyebrow. 

“No funny business?” 

Fitz crosses his heart and then raises both hands in a defensive gesture, hoping that she’ll see the truthfulness in his words. 

“ _Promise._ ” 

She looks at him for another long moment, likely search for even a modicum of insincerity, before nodding her head once and saying, “Okay. Good.” 

Jemma’s acceptance of his apology and timid request to be friends instantly fills Fitz with a feeling of relief and he can’t stop the small smile from breaking out across his face. He looks at her for a few moments, noting the way her fingers tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear, and then glances at his watch to note the time. 

“Are you… are you finished for the day? 

Jemma looks up at the question before glancing at her own watch, eyebrows raising in pleasant surprise, and nodding at him with a small smile. 

“Could I… Would you let me walk you home? I brought umm…” He pauses for a moment to out the portable CD player and ear buds from the large pocket of his jacket and holds it up with an unnecessary, “I brought this and thought you might want to finish listening? Or not. If you don’t, that’s fine too. I can just leave this with you.” 

Jemma stares at him for a moment before turning around and walking away, leaving Fitz more than a little dejected, before swiveling her head to face him with a grin and say, “Well? Are you walking me home or not?” 

Fitz smiles at her teasing exasperation and quickly moves to match her pace, popping open the CD player and inserting the disc as he holds out a bud for Jemma. She takes it and puts it in her ear, quirking an eyebrow at the silence and motivating Fitz to hit play on the device. 

They walk side-by-side through the city, listening to the CD and exchanging thoughts whenever one of them has something relevant to say. Jemma is exactly the sounding board that Fitz has needed, nodding along when he discusses adjustments he thinks should be made to the music and chiming in with her own opinions of what might work better.

There words flow together and by the time they’ve listened to the CD twice, Fitz has a mental list of all of the improvements to be made. He’s so focused on trying to remember them all that he doesn’t notice that Jemma has stopped walking until she says, “This is me.”

Fitz blinks at her, eyes moving between Jemma and the building behind her, and he feels a small flicker of disappointment when he realizes that their partnership is done for the night. He shuffles slightly, taking her proffered ear bud and tucking it, along with the small CD player, back into his pocket. 

“Alright well then… then I suppose I’ll see you tomor…” 

Fitz doesn’t even manage to hesitantly ask Jemma if she might be willing to meet in the square for lunch again before she’s cutting him off with, “Dinner?” 

He blinks quickly at her, shaking his head a little bit as if the movement will suddenly make him understand what she’s said, and leans in slightly with a look of complete and utter confusion. “Sorry?” 

Jemma gives him a look that Fitz thinks she would also use while explaining basic mathematics to a small child in primary school and jerks her head towards the door of the small townhouse they’re standing in front of. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” 

She speaks slowly and deliberately, not breaking eye contact, and Fitz _still_ doesn’t understand what exactly it is that she’s asking him. His mind repeats her words over and over, studying intonations and implications, before he realizes that her question literally could not be any more clear. He nods his head slowly, cheeks reddening slightly once he realizes he’s been silently gaping at her for over a minute, before softly saying, “Oh… umm really? Yeah! That’s… that would be lovely. Thanks very much.” 

Jemma gives him a small smile before motioning for him to follow her up the small set of stairs. He trails behind her, looking on as she pulls out a key to unlock the front door, and silently shadows her as she moves through the entrance and walks down a narrow hallway. 

“Gran?” 

She calls out into what Fitz had _thought_ was an empty flat and then moves towards another room in the direction of the responding, “In here sweetheart!” 

Fitz follows blindly, albeit a bit slower than before now that he knows that he and Jemma aren’t the only ones around, and turns a corner just as Jemma embraces an older woman with a warm smile. He hovers in the doorway, hands jammed in his pockets and feet anxiously shifting on the floor, and waits quietly until Jemma pulls back from her grandmother and turns to shoot him a smile. She takes a step away from the older woman and beckons for him to come forward. 

Fitz takes a few tentative steps into the room as Jemma says, “Gran, this is my friend Fitz. He’ll be joining us for dinner tonight.” 

He notes Jemma’s brief widening of her eyes and immediately takes a hand from his pocket, extending it in front of him and wincing slightly at its shakiness. He nervously waits as the older woman’s eyes scan over him and silently wishes that he’d woken up this morning and decided to dress a bit more refined. He feels wholly insecure as the impeccable woman in front of him studies him with an unwavering eye and holds his breath as the nerves seem to double. 

It’s silent for a long moment before Jemma’s grandmother takes a step forward and grips Fitz’s outstretched hand with a hum. 

“Well _Fitz._ I hope you like prosciutto.” 

-O-

“Oh my god. What _is_ this?” 

Fitz groans in bliss as he takes another bite of the sandwich in front of him and feels his eyes roll backwards at the flavors that hit his taste buds. 

“Prosciutto, buffalo mozzarella, and homemade pesto aioli. Why? Do you not like it?” 

His eyes open in incredulity as he takes in Jemma’s worried expression and her grandmother’s slightly disapproving one. Not wanting to have his exclamation be mistaken for unappreciation or dislike, Fitz quickly swallows and stares at Jemma in astonishment. 

“Are you _kidding_?! This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten! It’s bloody…” He falters slightly at the identical raised eyebrows that are pointed in his direction, “…oh uh, sorry it’s… _really_ delicious.”

Jemma smiles at the complement, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before tucking back into her own meal. Fitz takes another large bite of the sandwich and has to consciously stop himself from moaning at the sheer deliciousness of the meal.

“So, Fitz. How did you meet my granddaughter?” 

His head whips up at the question and he meets the gaze of Jemma’s grandmother across the table. Fitz’s mouth drops open slightly and he nervously glances at Jemma who gives him an encouraging smile and a less than subtle hint that he should answer the question that was asked of him.

“Oh umm… well I was busking and she was one of the only people who actually stopped to listen and…” He shrugs as his sentence peters off and hopes that the older woman will understand what he’s getting at. She seems to comprehend and leans back in her chair, folding her napkin beside her, while staring at him with a scrutinizing look. 

“And what? Your music was so inspiring that she decided it warranted a free meal? 

Fitz’s eyes widen at this and he begins to vehemently shake his head in denial. He can see Jemma wincing in his periphery and wonders briefly if it’s because of her grandmother’s bluntness or his own floundering. “No! We just got to talking and then she asked me to fix…” 

He sees Jemma’s eyes widen as her head shifts almost imperceptibly, silently begging him not to bring up the watch _,_ but her grandmother is staring at him still and Fitz knows from experience that she won’t let him get away with not finishing his sentence. 

“…the positioning of my hand. Said I’d end up with carpal tunnel if I didn’t play properly.” 

For some reason this causes a pleased smile to break out across the older woman’s face and she leans further into her chair before nodding her head in understanding.

“Ahh yes. That sounds about right. Jemma’s always had an affinity for biology. Did she tell you that she attended Cambridge? Not only that but she graduated before her eighteenth birthday! My Jemma, working on her first PhD before she could even buy herself a proper drink!”

Jemma groans at her grandmother’s bragging while Fitz’s mouth drops open in astonishment at his new friend’s achievements. That same fluttering of warmth that seems to creep up on him whenever he’s in Jemma’s presence returns in full force as a fiery inferno. The flames permeate through his body as he processes the fact that Jemma is even more like him than he thought. Because her story sounds nearly identical to his own other than the small matter concerning her… 

“ _First_ PhD _?”_

His eyes flit back and forth between the two women, one beaming and the other blushing, before settling on the older of the two, who he _knows_ is far more likely to actually give him information. Sure enough, her smile widens as she looks at her granddaughter in a way that Fitz feels slightly envious of. “Yes! One wasn’t enough for my Jem. She’s set to start her second in the fall. Isn’t that right Jemma?” 

The older woman gives Jemma a look that Fitz can’t quite decipher but he _can_ decipher the growing irritation in Jemma’s silent response. She shoots her grandmother a hard look that is all façade because Fitz can see the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. 

“I don’t want to get into it again. Not now. _Please._ ”

The desperation in her voice is evident and Fitz watches the way that her grandmother seems to instantly soften. The two come to some sort of silent truce, over what Fitz isn’t sure, and the older woman turns her attention back to him with a sigh. 

“I suppose a change of topic is in order.” 

Fitz can see the way Jemma seems to collapse in relief and wonders where the conversation would have gone if he hadn’t been here to unintentionally interrupt it. He doesn’t get too far in his thinking because the elder woman gets his attention with, “So, you busk? Does this mean you chose to not to get an education?” 

“Gran!” 

Jemma gives the older woman a disapproving look before turning to Fitz with one of apology. At first he assumes that she’s merely being polite, apologizing for her grandmother’s inquisition, but then he realizes that she’s apologizing for what she assumes is his _answer_ to the question. Fitz looks at her for a moment as it dawns on him that Jemma very likely believes that he’s not much more than what she’s seen of him. 

Her eyes shift slightly, as though she can hear him coming to this conclusion, and Fitz realizes that, despite the odd connection that’s grown between him and Jemma, they haven’t actually known each other long enough for her to be aware that he’s done quite a bit more than busking and fixing the occasional watch. 

He tears his gaze from her and focuses back in on the older woman who’s sitting patiently in her chair and leveling him with a look that could likely rival that of Medusa. He coughs once to clear his throat and buy some time to collect his thoughts, before ducking his head and answering the question that was asked. 

“Oh umm… actually I… I went to Oxford. And I… well I guess Jemma and I have more in common than I thought because I got my degree before my eighteenth as well.” 

He manages to catch the surprised raise of the older woman’s eyebrows before quickly moving his eyes over to Jemma, whose mouth is open in shock. She stares at him for a long moment, eyes wide and mouth wider, before a soft smile breaks out across her face and she softly says, “ _That’s_ what Coulson meant by child prodigy.” 

Fitz smiles bashfully at this, ducking his head and passing it off as a nod of confirmation. 

“My, my. What are the chances? And did you end your schooling there?” 

Fitz straightens again at the direct question and shakes his head, trying to keep eye contact while nervously rubbing his neck. “No ma’am. I worked a bit to save up money and… well I actually just finished my PhD as well.” 

His eyes seem to flicker towards Jemma of their own accord and his heart thumps against his chest when he sees the unbridled excitement in her stare. She leans forward in her chair and Fitz seems to shift his body subconsciously to better see her. “Did you? At what university?”

The question is asked with an eagerness that Fitz isn’t accustomed to and he can’t help but grin at Jemma. She’s completely sincere and genuinely curious, and Fitz can’t quite believe that said sincere curiosity is being directed towards _him._ Though, considering how few people he’s met that have had such similar experiences, Fitz supposes he can’t be _too_ surprised that his life story would strike an interest in Jemma. 

“Imperial College… London.” 

Jemma’s smile broadens at this and Fitz is certain that his expression mirrors her own. Even her grandmother seems impressed by the latest fact he’s provided because she’s nodding her head with an expression of pleasant surprise. 

“My, that’s a very good school Fitz. A very good school indeed. And not at all cheap!” 

He can see Jemma cover her face in mortification at her grandmother’s less than subtle fishing for information, but Fitz knows that it would be unwise not to answer the older woman as honestly as possible. 

“No ma’am it wasn’t. But I was fortunate enough to receive quite a bit of scholarship money for both degrees.” 

The scholarship money was the only reason he’d even been _able_ to get out of Glasgow and attend the top universities, and despite always being wary of his financial situation, Fitz has never been ashamed to admit that his education was largely due to hard work. He watches uneasily as Jemma’s grandmother waves her hand dismissively at him, and holds his breath as he waits to hear whatever new opinion she’s established since finding out the path he had to take for his studies. 

“Oh tosh with that ma’am nonsense Fitz. Anyone intelligent enough to graduate uni before their eighteenth, get a PhD from a top school… _and_ have both schools pay _them_ to attend… should call me Elizabeth.” 

She gives him a warm smile when she’s done speaking and it instantly causes the tension to drain away. Fitz can feel his body relax at the respect he sees in _Elizabeth’s_ eyes and chances a glance at Jemma who’s looking at her grandmother with an indescribable expression. 

He can clearly make out the relief, Jemma no doubt being grateful that the older woman won’t do anything more to make Fitz uncomfortable, but there’s a lingering sadness that Fitz is certain has been present for a long while. When Jemma turns to catch his eye, a small smile begins to spread across her face as the sadness disappears, replaced with an affectionate warmth that causes Fitz’s cheeks to turn red. 

He opens his mouth to keep the conversation going, now that the ice has thawed a bit and he’s managed to make some headway with the intimidating matriarch of the household, when the doorbell rings and Jemma jumps up from the table. She glances quickly at her watch and lets out a small chuckle as she says, “Right on time.” 

She exits the room with a quick, “Be right back,” and Fitz is left alone with Elizabeth who is staring at him with a watchful eye. He wonders if Jemma’s ability to read him is genetic and becomes slightly worried about what it is that her grandmother might see. He expects her to begin grilling him again and is surprised when the words that leave her mouth are, “Did Jemma tell you why she’s here in Glasgow?” 

His brows furrow at the question and he shakes his head slowly in response. “No she didn’t but I assume it’s not just to tour the city.” 

He means it as a joke but Elizabeth’s eyes darken slightly before her expression becomes almost somber. She shakes her head with a sigh and reaches for the wine glass in front of her, taking a long sip before speaking again. 

“My husband passed away not long ago.”

Fitz blinks, both at the words and at the sadness in her voice, and suddenly understands Jemma’s desperate request for him to fix the gold watch tucked away in Coulson’s shop. The pieces fall into place with Elizabeth’s reveal and Fitz finds his heart clenching slightly for both her and Jemma’s loss. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can think to say and it doesn’t seem like enough but Elizabeth looks at him appreciatively before continuing to explain. 

“Thank you. It’s been difficult to deal with and I… I had a bit of trouble at first. I didn’t take his death well and struggled in more ways than one when left with the task of living without him.” 

Fitz nods sympathetically at the woman, remembering a time when it seemed as though his mother was being crushed by the weight of caring for him alone, and draws enough courage to lean forward and squeeze her hand with an understanding smile. She seems surprised by the gesture, staring at his hand for a long moment before looking at him and giving her own tremulous smile in return. 

“Yes well… Jemma knew I was struggling and dropped everything to help me deal with the loss. Managing finances, sorting through old documents, doing… doing _anything_ she can to keep me and this house together.” 

Fitz blinks at the older woman’s words as it begins to slowly dawn on him as to why someone as intelligent as Jemma is willing to do something as meaningless as handing out flyers to uncaring tourists. 

“We’re… _I’m_ doing much better now but Jemma doesn’t think I can manage without her. Hence the tension over her schooling.” 

Fitz isn’t sure he was meant to have picked up on said tension, so he feigns a confused expression that Elizabeth immediately scoffs at. “You’ve already established yourself as quite the intelligent man Fitz. No need to pretend that you didn’t notice our earlier tiff.” 

He shrugs bashfully and nods at her slight demand. The small movement is enough of an agreement for Elizabeth because she takes another sip of her wine before letting out a long sigh. 

“She was set to begin her studies at the very Imperial College you went to this fall but… she deferred her acceptance to stay here and help me.” 

Her voice wavers towards the end and Fitz can see the slight sheen of moisture in her eyes at the confession that Jemma is here because of _her._ It puts quite a bit in perspective for Fitz and his heart swells once again as he thinks about the woman in the other room. 

The moment he does, Fitz hears the sound of voices intermingled with footsteps and quickly sits up as he tries to school his features. Elizabeth seems to have the same intentions because she takes a napkin and quickly dabs at her eyes to ensure that no tears have escaped and that her granddaughter won’t be able to tell that they existed at all. 

She raises her glass to her lips just as Jemma turns the corner with another young woman that Fitz doesn’t recognize. 

She pulls up short at the sight of him and raises her eyebrows in surprise before nudging Jemma and giving her a look that Fitz is certain he wouldn’t be able to figure out even if he had a manual. He shuffles nervously, hoping that he won’t have to deal with a second interrogation in one day, and Jemma must sense his unease because she moves forward to tug at his arm and bring him over to the girl that’s staring at them with a smirk. 

“Skye, this is Fitz. Fitz, this is Skye. She lives next door but comes over here to watch TV since her flat doesn’t have one and she _refuses_ to buy one.” 

Fitz sticks his hand out on instinct and the girl, _Skye,_ laughs at the formality before shaking it and giving Jemma a scandalized look. “I come over here to hang out with my _friend._ If my favorite show just happens to be on at the same time… it’s but a mere coincidence.” 

Jemma rolls her eyes at her friend, nudging her slightly as she says, “I think you’ve told that lie so many times that you might actually believe it now.” 

The girls share a smile before Skye turns to face Fitz with an appraising look. Her eyes rove over his body before glancing to where his guitar is leaning against the wall in the corner. Her eyes widen slightly before her smile turns into an all out grin that Fitz finds more worrying than the stony look that Elizabeth had given him during the beginning half of dinner. 

“Oh, you’re _Busker_ boy. Well, just to make things clear, if I ask you to pass me the remote, use your hands and not your tongue.” 

Fitz’s eyes widen and he feels his entire face turn crimson at the sly wink that Skye shoots Jemma. His mouth drops open and he begins to quickly shake his head, waving his hands slightly, as he stammers out a few garbled apologies that sound more like something out of an alien film than the English dictionary. 

“ _Skye!”_ Jemma hisses under her breath, moving her hand and pinching Skye on the arm hard enough to make the other girl yelp. She turns to Jemma with wide eyes that soften slightly at the mortified glare that the other girl is giving her. 

“Oh I’m just _teasing_.” Skye turns to Fitz with a _marginally_ apologetic expression that quickly turns mischievous at the sight of his still red cheeks. “But if that’s all it takes to get a reaction like _that,_ then I believe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship Fitz. I’m going to have a lot of fun with you.” 

-O- 

When Skye finally leaves, waving jovially and promising to see them all soon, Fitz sighs in relief as he feels the nervous tension finally leave his body. 

She’d kept him on edge all night with teasing remarks and endless hints that him hurting Jemma would mean _Skye_ hurting him. He’d tried to stutter out that, considering how blatantly obvious Jemma had been about not having any romantic interest in him, there would be _no_ hurting in the future but Skye had just barreled on to the next subject with the clear implication that the matter was closed. 

When the evening’s programming switched from telly to the news, Skye demanded that Fitz walk her to the door like a proper gentleman. Too exhausted to even bother denying the request, Fitz obliged with little fanfare. When they’d reached the door, Skye turned to him with a serious expression and said, “I’m serious Fitz. Don’t hurt her.” 

Then she’d called goodbye to the others before he could once again make any sort of denial, gave him an airy wave, and walked down the street without a backwards glance. 

Now he’s sitting on the stoop with his head in his hands, hoping that the fresh air will clear the jitters from him before he heads back inside. He takes a few deep breaths before the sound of quiet laughter breaks the silence and he turns around to see Jemma leaning against the doorframe. She’s giving him a soft smile and moves forward to sit on the step next to him. It’s silent for a few moments before she chuckles again and says, “I suppose after tonight we’re even in terms of awkward moments in our respective homes.” 

Fitz groans at her words and covers his face with his hands, muffling yet another apology for the night before. He feels her bump his shoulder with her own but doesn’t extract his face from his hands to actually look at her until she says, “Fitz! I’m _kidding_. We’re square, I promise. _Especially_ after forcing both my gran and Skye on you. _One_ would be enough to send most men to a therapist… two in one sitting? I’m impressed that you’re still here.” 

Fitz chuckles slightly at her comment, nodding at its accuracy, and says, “They have very different methods but both managed to make me feel as though I might piss myself.” 

Jemma laughs aloud at this before turning to him with a slightly worried expression. “Did my grandmother ask anymore inappropriate questions while I was getting Skye?” 

He can tell that she’s afraid that the older woman might have pushed too far or asked to much so Fitz hurriedly tries to explain that the conversation that took place while Jemma was tending to Skye was far less of an interrogation than she likely though. “No uh… she was just explaining the situation.” 

Jemma tenses at this and she gives him a sharp look as she asks, “And what situation would that be?” 

There’s an edginess to her voice that startles Fitz and he suddenly thinks that perhaps he shouldn’t have been so willing to lend an ear to Elizabeth if Jemma is going to get so upset about it. “You know… about your grandfather passing away and you coming over here to help out… putting off your second PhD…” 

He stops talking at the look in her eyes and decides to wait in silence for Jemma to either demand that he leave or open up a bit more. 

She does neither. 

“So your CD… when did you put it together?” 

Fitz may be a clueless idiot sometimes but this moment isn’t one of them and he quickly decides to follow Jemma’s change of subject instead of satisfying his own curiosity by asking her a bit more about what it is that she’s in Glasgow for. The appreciative look of relief she gives him when he does is more than enough reason to keep the topic away from anything that might dredge up bad memories for her. 

“I recorded some of it a few years ago and the newer stuff I recorded over the past few weeks. Obviously almost none of it is finished but… sometimes I find it easier to write the words when I can actually _hear_ the music… you know?” 

Jemma nods at this and Fitz is taken back to their earlier walk when she’d pitched idea after idea that he wouldn’t have thought of in a million years. The memory causes him to fiddle with his hands in his lap as he tentatively pitches her his _own_ idea. “I was actually… well I was hoping that _you_ might take a whack at it.” 

Jemma turns to him with a look of confusion that Fitz probably shouldn’t find as endearing as he does and furrows her brows as she asks, “Whack at what?” 

He’s thankful for her question because it stops him from making the same mistake of trying to kiss her two nights in a row. He’s annoyed at himself for even _contemplating_ leaning in after the fiasco last night and uses the question to prevent himself from making an even bigger ass of himself. 

“Take a whack at writing some of the lyrics. The music’s mostly there but I haven’t really been able to find the words lately and I thought… I dunno. I thought maybe you could help. If you’re interested I mean.”

Jemma looks at him in shock for a few moments before an enormous smile covers most of her face and she begins to nod excitedly. “I’d love to!” 

Fitz himself is a bit surprised at her enthusiasm but feels his heart begin to quicken at how swiftly she’d agreed to his proposal. “Gr… great! That’s awesome… thank you.” 

Jemma’s response is to merely widen her smile and wedge her hand in the small space between them. Fitz doesn’t hesitate to take it, shaking it in his own and grinning when Jemma says, “To the start of a magnificent partnership.” 

-O- 

It doesn’t take long for Jemma to seamlessly fit into Fitz’s life. 

They quickly develop a routine that consists of chatting amicably in the morning as Fitz sets up his guitar, eating lunch at all of his childhood stomping grounds, sitting down for dinner with her grandmother and Skye, and finishing the night huddled in Coulson’s shop after closing, Fitz working on the watches and Jemma looking on as she listens to his instrumental tracks and scribbles furiously in her small notebook. 

They work well together, efficiently and effortlessly with their words overflowing and merging in perfect synchrony. Fitz doesn’t really notice it at first, it’s as natural as breathing to him, but Skye makes a comment at dinner one night that makes him realize how large a role Jemma now plays in his life. 

_“Man, you guys are so tight it’s like you’re psychically linked.”_

The statement causes both of them to stop talking mid-sentence, eyes widening at the words, before turning to each other in surprise and blushing the moment their eyes lock. 

Fitz can’t help but think that Skye’s comment has made something click in his brain that he hadn’t fully realized before. That he and Jemma _have_ become tight, and that _tight_ doesn’t really seem to be an accurate description for what they are. He himself can’t properly articulate what she is to him or he to her, but he knows that whatever they are is going to make leaving approximately a million times harder. 

-O- 

“Why do you always look so sad when you count your change?” 

It’s the end of another day and Fitz is packing up his things in preparation to walk Jemma home. Jemma herself is leaning against the building as his fingers pluck up each of the coins laying in his case and Fitz looks up at her just long enough to shoot her a quick eye roll. He gives a wry chuckle at the sound of the clinking coins as they fall into his pocket and shakes his head slightly. 

“Because it never really amounts to much.” 

He thinks the answer is fairly obvious and wonders why Jemma asked the question in the first place. For someone as smart as she most definitely _is_ , the inquiry seems beneath her considering the fact that even a small child with common sense could likely piece together why one might be disappointed in the day’s profit… or lack thereof. 

But, as Fitz has learned in the short time together, Jemma is anything but ordinary meaning that he needs to be prepared for anything when it comes to her. He’s _also_ learned that Jemma is _incredibly_ persistent. 

“I thought you didn’t do this for the money?” 

Fitz chuckles slightly at her and shakes his head making sure she sees his _second_ eye roll before explaining, “I _don’t_. But, the fact of the matter is, the money is validation for me. It’s a physical indicator of how I’m doing and if… if the _money_ never really amounts to much then…” 

“Then _you_ don’t amount to much.” 

Fitz only shrugs his shoulders and gives her a look of confirmation before ducking his head and crouching lower to put his guitar away. 

It’s silent for a few moments, save for the nagging voices in his own mind, but then Fitz feels something warm on his back. He tenses slightly at the contact but relaxes instantly when the warmth shifts, a soft hand squeezes his shoulder, and an even softer voice says, “Fitz that’s ridiculous.” 

He sighs slightly at her statement, knowing full well that she’s right but completely unable to alter the way his mind equates the loose change with his personal success. Still, he knows better than to argue with Jemma, especially over something so personal when he _knows_ she’ll be ready to counter any of his insecurities, so he just nods his head with another small sigh. 

“Yeah I know.” 

Her hand shifts from his shoulder and Fitz mourns the loss before smiling at the way Jemma holds it in front of his face and wiggles her fingers for him to take. He does so with gratitude and she falls back, letting her body weight help pull him up to stand beside her. 

When he’s righted himself, Jemma pulls her hand away, but not before giving his fingers one last squeeze of silent encouragement. Fitz gives her an appreciative smile before offering her the crook of his arm, grinning happily when she accepts it, and beginning the walk towards the little townhouse she shares with her grandmother. 

They seem to both agree that tonight’s walk doesn’t need their idle chatter, and instead move together in companionable silence, each lost in their own mind. But, as is often the case, being lost in his own mind means that Fitz’s thoughts quickly turn darker. 

He glances down at where Jemma’s hand is wrapped around his arm and mentally calculates how few chances he’ll have to experience such a thing in the future. The weeks have flown by and each new day reminds him that this isn’t permanent. He won’t be here for much longer, won’t get to talk science with Jemma over lunch, won’t be able to exchange ideas with her late in the evening, and won’t be able to bask in these wonderful silences where they don’t have to speak at all. 

The realization causes something sharp to pinch in his chest and Fitz finds that he doesn’t enjoy the feeling in the least. 

“I’m leaving soon.” 

The words come out like a gun shot, blurted into the silence with no finesse or forewarning, and Fitz winces at his lack of tact. 

He feels Jemma’s hand tighten briefly around his arm and wonders if it’s merely a physical reaction to his sudden outburst or if it might have been a reaction to the words themselves. A small part of him hopes that it’s the latter and that Jemma might be as uneager to _see_ him leave as Fitz is _to_ leave. He knows that their easy camaraderie can’t be something felt on his end alone, and thinks that his return to London might have just as large an impact on her as it will inevitably have on him. 

“I know.” 

Her words are soft and there’s a tinge of sadness to them that somehow gives Fitz the courage to move his free hand over hers where it’s gripped tightly around his arm. 

“ _Really_ soon.” 

He’s not sure why he feels the need to say it. The departure date has been looming over him for weeks and the fact that he doesn’t have much time left seems to be something that should be emphasized. 

“I _know_ Fitz.” 

There’s an irritation behind Jemma’s words but it isn’t enough to cover up the unhappiness that seems to be radiating between them. Fitz isn’t sure what else there is to say on the subject. 

He’s leaving and she knows. 

He slowly extracts his hand from where it’s resting loosely atop Jemma’s and shoves it in his pocket with a sigh. The silence now is heavy and filled with a thick tension that seems stifling. Fitz _hates_ the way that the somberness seems to fill him and tries desperately to think of something to say that might at least dilute the feeling of melancholia. 

It doesn’t take long for him to focus on the idea he’s been ruminating over in his mind since that first duet in the music store. He hadn’t really seen it as something that could actually be _plausible_ but right now, in this moment, it seems like the single most important thing in his life. 

Fitz comes to a halt in the middle of sidewalk, turning to Jemma with determination, and decides to follow the day’s MO of simply blurting out what he’s thinking. 

“I want to record a demo before I leave.” 

Jemma looks at him as though he’s grown another head, mouth dropping open and eyes widening in astonishment. “You what?” 

Fitz nods his head eagerly. Now that he’s put his idea out in the open, he’s more certain than ever that it’s the right move. 

_Now all he has to do is convince Jemma._  

“I want to do it. I want to rip off the band-aid and give it a shot Jemma. I won’t have _time_ to do it once I start work in London and I… I just… I want to do it here. With _you._ ” 

This seems to _really_ surprise her because she pulls her hand away from where it’s laying slack on his arm and takes a step back as if the extra space between them might help her read him more clearly and discover he’s not being serious. Apparently the distance only makes her realize that he is _completely_ serious because her eyes somehow manage to widen even more and she all but screeches, “ _What_?!” 

Fitz hastily steps forward, grabbing her hands in his own and eagerly beginning his off-the-cuff speech to convince her that this is something they should do. Together. 

“I can’t just record myself playing guitar and singing Jemma! What would be the point of that? I need to go all out. Drums, bass, 2nd guitar and _piano._ I want you to do it with me.” 

Jemma slowly shakes her head and stares at him as though he is well and truly deranged. “Fitz… you can’t be serious.” 

But he is. He’s never been more serious about anything in his life and he moves even _closer_ to Jemma so that he can convince her. “You know I am.” 

She looks at him for a few long moments and he can see the exact moment that she believes him. Her mouth opens slightly and Fitz watches as the understanding seems to wash over her face. With said understanding comes an indefinable expression that spurns Fitz forward. He doesn’t think Jemma looks all that put out by the idea, so Fitz takes the opportunity to squeeze her hands gently and re-voice his proposal. 

“What do you say Jemma… want to make a record?” 

She doesn’t say anything for a few agonizing moments but the slow grin that stretches across her face is all the answer Fitz needs. 

-O- 

“Alright Fitz, just… let me do the talking.” 

He fidgets in his chair, adjusting the Windsor around his neck, and lets out a derisive snort at Jemma’s command. “I have a feeling you’d do the talking whether I _let_ you or not.” 

She grins slightly at this before schooling her features as the owner of SHIELD Studios returns to the room with an expectant expression. 

“Well, what do you guys think?” 

_It’s perfect._

That’s what _Fitz_ would have said, but he’d promised to let Jemma do the talking so he keeps his expression neutral. Said neutrality flies out the window when Jemma crosses her arms and looks at the other man defiantly before saying, “That depends, how much are you going to charge us for it?” 

“It’ll run you £3,000 for the weekend but that’ll include an engineer, all the equipment we’ve got here, more tape than you could possibly need, plus the basic amenities like coffee and tea.” 

Fitz is about to accept the offer, honestly more worried about the timeframe than the actual cost, but Jemma shoots him a withering look and pinches him in warning. She turns back to Gonzalez with a serious expression and bluntly says, “We’ll give you £1,200.” 

The man laughs at this and shakes his head so that Fitz and Jemma get both an audible _and_ visible, “No chance.” 

Jemma narrows her eyes at his response and Fitz feels a knot of tension begin to slowly wind up in his body as he imagines the possible repercussions of her stubbornness. 

“£1,500 or we walk.” 

Fitz groans internally as Gonzalez moves to the door, holds it open, and gestures for the two of them to leave. He hisses, “ _Jemma,”_ under his breath and nudges her, desperation in his eyes. 

She turns to glare at him before moving her gaze back to the other man in the room and fixing him with a winning smile that Fitz can’t help but gape at. “Would you mind terribly speaking with me alone for a moment?” 

Fitz’s mouth drops open at the request and watches as Gonzalez nods and the two move into the actual recording space, leaving Fitz alone in the sound booth. He watches as Jemma begins to gesticulate wildly pointing in his direction every few seconds and stares in shock when he sees the two shake hands and walk towards the door less than two minutes later. 

When Gonzalez walks back in the room, he moves to Fitz with an outstretched hand and an, “It’s yours for £2,000.” 

Fitz shakes the proffered hand on instinct, not fully understanding what just happened, and gapes after Gonzalez when he leaves the room to retrieve the necessary paperwork. He turns to Jemma in shock and hates the flare of heat that courses through him at the sight of her smug expression. 

He _especially_ hates the way that said heat flares when Jemma throws a smirk over her shoulder as they exit the studio with their signed contracts and says, “Well that was easy. Where to next?” 

-O- 

_Where to next_ is a street corner a few blocks down where Fitz knows some of his busking acquaintances will likely be playing. 

He can see Seth and Donnie sitting on their folding chairs, the former fiddling with his electric guitar as the latter taps a steady beat on his drum kit, and Fitz grins at the sight of their bickering. 

“ _Them?”_ Jemma’s dubious tone causes Fitz to grin down at her, offering only a nod to confirm that _this_ is the rest of their ragtag band. 

“How _old_ are they? Are they even out of Sixth Form yet?” 

Fitz rolls his eyes at Jemma’s remark and is quick to defend his decision. “First of all, you’re in _Scotland_ Jemma, we call it high school. Second of all… I _think_ so. And third of all… just _trust_ me.” 

She gives a skeptical hum at this and Fitz just shoots her a look before quickening his pace and moving towards the other buskers. When he comes into their line of vision, the two boys eagerly wave him over and Fitz doesn’t hesitate to pick up the acoustic guitar lying at Seth’s feet. 

Donnie mutters a quick, “Squealing Pigs in 1, 2, 3, 4,” and in the next moment the three of them are playing together as though they’ve done it a hundred times. It only takes about ten seconds before Fitz is glancing at Jemma with a smug smile, much like the one she’d given him outside of the studio. 

She rolls her eyes and, though he can’t hear her over the sound of the drums, Fitz _knows_ that her rising chest means that she’s just huffed in mild irritation at his cockiness. This of course makes him grin even more, strumming the guitar with a renewed vigor and generally reveling in the feeling of proving Jemma wrong while playing good music to boot. 

When the song comes to a close, Fitz claps the two boys on the back and turns to them with an eager smile. “How would you guys like to join me in the recording studio next weekend?” 

Donnie and Seth share puzzled glances and Fitz beckons for Jemma to come join them. When she does, the puzzled looks become somewhat awestruck (not surprising considering the dress Jemma had worn to speak to the people at SHIELD) and Fitz gives the boys a quick look of warning before launching into his explanation of his plans to record a demo. 

He and Jemma talk over and around each other, each explaining a different set of details to Donnie and Seth. Their mouths and eyes grow wider with each word and Fitz can see the excitement on their faces when he and Jemma finally finish speaking. The boys turn to each other in synchrony, mirrored grins breaking out across their faces, before returning their gaze to Fitz and eagerly nodding their heads. 

He gives each of them another clap on the back and gives them the details of where and when to meet for practice before they get together in the studio. He and Jemma walk away from them with friendly waves, both laughing when the boys high-five each other in enthusiasm. 

-O- 

They’re walking towards the bus stop, both reveling in the success of the day, when Jemma comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Fitz makes it four steps before noticing that she’s no longer beside him and turns around quickly to find her peering through the window of a pawn shop. When he walks back to her, Fitz is startled to see that Jemma is close to tears. 

“Jem?” 

She tilts her head slightly to acknowledge him but doesn’t tear her eyes away from whatever has caught her attention in the small shop. When Fitz moves closer, he follows her eye line until his gaze stops on a frankly gorgeous piano that is pressed against the far wall. 

They stare in silence for a few minutes before Jemma breaks it with a whispered, “That was mine.” 

Fitz isn’t sure he’s heard her correctly and he stares at her in astonishment but it only takes one glance at her dismayed expression for Fitz to realize that he’s _definitely_ heard her correctly. “ _What?”_

“My grandfather left it to me but…” She pauses for a moment, turning to him with red-rimmed eyes, and takes a shaky breath that makes Fitz’s heart clench. 

“I’m not sure what all my grandmother told you but I’m almost positive she downplayed everything. She was a wreck after he passed, could barely function, so I decided to come and help out as best I could.” Jemma takes another breath as her voice begins to wobble and Fitz squeezes her shoulder in encouragement. 

“But then I started going through all of their papers and realized that they were way behind on their payments. She had no idea, completely oblivious since he did all the finances, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her… so I told her things weren’t great, which _she_ assumed just meant things were _fine_. But they had _so_ many bills that needed to be paid ASAP and I just… I sold it.” 

Jemma lets out a small sniffle as she nods towards the instrument in the shop and Fitz doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around her should her and tug her to him in comfort. She shifts slightly to rest her head on his chest and sighs, sniffling again before continuing. 

“We needed money fast and there weren’t really any other options. Once the overdue bills were paid things got better but… mostly just because I’ve been taking as many odd jobs as possible to stay afloat. Nobody’s really hiring biochemists in the area at the moment…” 

Fitz does his best to comfort Jemma, rubbing her shoulder and not commenting on the way her tears and runny nose have soaked a small area of his shirt, but thinks that what she needs more than anything is just someone that will listen to her and give her the opportunity to _talk._

Jemma is silent for a few minutes before she pulls away slightly, wiping the tears off her face and turning to Fitz with a watery smile. “She asked me what happened to it and… I just couldn’t tell her what I’d done… that what happened to it was it became cash to pay her bills… So I just told her that I shipped it back to London.” 

She turns back towards the window with a dejected expression. “I didn’t even get a chance to play it.” 

Fitz doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t think there’s really anything _to_ say, so he just waits with Jemma as silent support. They spend another few minutes standing in front of the darkened shop until Jemma heaves one more sigh and turns around, tugging at Fitz’s arm and walking down the street. 

Fitz matches her pace but can’t help looking back over his shoulder at the physical evidence that Jemma is one of the most selfless people he’s ever met. 

-O- 

He’s waiting outside Jemma’s house the next morning, leaning up against a cherry red Corvette that Coulson will likely murder him for taking. He’s already prepared a defense should the older man find out he’d taken Lola out while Coulson was doing business in Edinburgh, but Fitz would much prefer not having to use it at all. 

He actually begins to panic slightly at the thought of what might happen to him should one of the locals tell Coulson about seeing his car driven by a man that _isn’t_ him, but the fear disappears immediately when he sees Jemma walk out her front door and come to a screeching halt at the sight of him. 

His main intention is to make Jemma smile and cheer her up after her breakdown last night and seeing her is all it takes for Fitz to mentally say _screw Coulson_ and lose any doubt he has regarding the _slight_ grand-theft-auto. 

He can see the surprise and excitement warring behind her eyes as she moves towards him and hopes that the latter will be the emotion that wins out. When she’s near enough that he won’t have to shout to be heard, Fitz straightens up and tilts his head towards the car with a mischievous grin. 

“Care to go for a drive?” 

Jemma bites her lip, no doubt in an attempt to stop her grin from widening, as her eyes move from him to the car behind him and Fitz _just_ thinks she’ll say yes when her shoulder slump and her face transforms to one of dejection. 

“I have to work.” 

Fitz bursts out laughing at that and has to physically dodge Jemma’s palm when she moves to thwack him on the arm. “You hand out _flyers_ Jemma. I’m sure taking the morning off won’t be a problem. In fact… it’ll probably save a few trees. M’pretty sure most people just chuck those things the minute you’re out of sight.” 

He gives her a cheeky grin and isn’t quite fast enough to dodge her hand a second time around but the blow to his arm has no force behind it so Fitz knows that she’s not _actually_ upset with his (likely accurate) conclusion. 

She’s biting her lip again and Fitz can practically _see_ the cogs of her mind whirring as she no doubt runs through the pros and cons of her options. He moves his arms behind his back so that Jemma can’t see him crossing his fingers and holds his breath when she tilts her head and looks up at him, and then at the car behind him. She sighs slightly but there’s a hesitant smile on her face that Fitz is quick to mirror.

“Think you can have me back by 1?” 

Her small smile grows into a beaming grin and Fitz doesn’t hesitate to nod, even going so far as to shoot her a wink, before moving to the other side of the car and opening the door. He grins at her and does an over the top arm gesture/bow combo. 

“Your chariot awaits m’lady.” 

Jemma rolls her eyes at the dramatics but Fitz is pretty sure that her cheeks are rosier than before, and that the smile on her face means that she’s not quite as exasperated with him as she’d like him to believe. 

-O- 

After about twenty minutes of Fitz speeding around winding roads just to hear Jemma laugh, the two end up at a small cliff side trail that Fitz remembers frequenting as a child whenever he needed to escape real life and the bustle of the city. 

It being a weekday morning, the small parking lot is thankfully empty and Fitz grins at the significant odds that the trail will be as well. When the car comes to a stop, he hops over the door and scrambles around the car to open Jemma’s for her. She lets out a startled laugh of delight at the display and smiles fondly at him as she accepts his outstretched hand and lets him tug her out of the car. 

If he holds her hand a few seconds longer than necessary, Jemma doesn’t say anything.

Fitz ignores the panging desire to lace their fingers together, and instead drops her hand when it becomes clear that even another _second_ of the contact would make it obvious that there’s really no _need_ for him to loosely grip her fingers to get her to follow him. He shoves his hands into his pockets to stop himself from doing something stupid like reach for Jemma’s again, and tilts his head towards the cliff in silent question. 

Jemma nods eagerly and keeps pace with him as Fitz moves towards the walking trail with a red face that can only be _partially_ blamed on the blazing sun. They chat amicably about meaningless things, Fitz telling her about his run-in with Hunter and Jemma laughing so hard that she nearly trips on a rock. 

The conversation ebbs and flows, merging between bouts of chatter and silence, and Fitz marvels at the fact that he’s comfortable no matter what he’s doing with Jemma. Whether their speaking or simply walking in silence, he’s entirely at ease. It’s a bit startling considering his usual aversion to people, chatter, _and_ potentially awkward silences, and Fitz is quite certain that Jemma’s the only person on the planet capable of making him feel peaceful no matter the situation. 

When the latest silence has stretched on for a few minutes, Fitz turns to Jemma with a grin and asks, “So… Miss _Child Prodigy_ … how’d you wind up at Cambridge?” 

Jemma shoves him playfully at the nickname and grins as she reaches down to tug a dandelion from the ground. When she straightens again she looks at him and gives a small shrug before plucking each of the miniscule petals from the flower. 

“Most schools were all but knocking down my door to try and convince me to attend one over the other. Cambridge ended up offering me a full scholarship and I mean… it was _Cambridge.”_ She turns to him with a small grin at that, eyes alight with excitement, before continuing. 

“Once I was old enough to know what university was all I did was dream about their School of Biological Sciences so… It wasn’t all that difficult a choice really. I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to attend.” 

Fitz nods his head at Jemma’s reflection, knowing all too well what it’s like to jump at the chance to follow a dream. His own experience with his schooling was quite similar, university after university approaching him with offers until he settled for the one that he’d actually been hoping for. 

Jemma seems to pick up on his look of understanding because she tilts her head with a knowing smile and says, “Is that how it was for you as well? 

“Yeah pretty much. They all offered me money but… I had my heart set on Oxford. The money they gave me covered most of tuition and the like, but if it weren’t for Coulson I probably wouldn’t have been able to go at all. He umm… he covered the difference. Told me it was a better investment than whatever stocks he would have bought with the same money.” 

He rubs at his neck, not sure how Jemma will react to this new piece of information, and nervously shifts his head to look at her. She’s giving him a soft expression, eyes shining in understanding, and Fitz can see the way that her mind puts the pieces together and better portrays his relationship with Coulson. He’s eternally grateful to the older man and he hopes that Jemma has been able to pick up that fact. 

He’s just as hopeful that Coulson _himself_ knows how appreciative Fitz is to have him in his life. 

“That’s umm… that’s why I took some time between schooling. I wanted to work a bit first to pay him back and make sure that he wouldn’t have to give me a dime to put towards getting the PhD.” 

Jemma hums at this, that same soft look in her eyes as before, and Fitz ducks his head at her silent admiration. She must be able to pick up on his discomfort because in the next moment she’s chuckling under her breath and saying, “Considering the stories he told me about you being a terror of a child… I’m not surprised Coulson decided to help out with the finances. He probably just needed a chance to get you out of the shop long enough to clean up the destruction you caused!” 

He laughs outwardly at that because it’s more than a little likely that Coulson actually _did_ use Fitz’s time at school as an opportunity to clean up his messes. He has a fond expression on his face that morphs into a feigned shock as he clutches his hand to his heart and says, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re getting at Jemma. _Destruction? Me?!_ I was a perfectly well-behaved angel of a child.” 

He manages to keep his expression serious until he turns his head and catches the dubious expression on Jemma’s face. Her head is tilted and one of her eyebrows is arched in a way that clearly says she’s not buying it. Fitz laughs before shrugging and acquiescence. 

“Alright, alright. I confess. I _might_ have been a bit of a troublemaker growing up.” 

Jemma grins at this, mmmhmmming in victory, and Fitz bumps her shoulder gently as they walk side-by-side down the path. 

“Well what about you, hmm? Is there anything _you’d_ like to confess Jemma?” 

Her smile falters slightly at the question, dimming slightly as she peers at him, and Fitz worries that he’s once again done something to muck things up. He’s about to apologize when he notices that, though _smaller,_ said smile is just as warm and fond as before, perhaps even more so when combined with the tenderness in her eyes. 

"Tha gaol agam ort." 

Her words are soft, spoken so quietly that Fitz can barely make them out, and he blinks slightly at the foreignness of them. He blinks again at the small tickling in his brain that tells him he’s heard them before, at some distant point in his past, and Fitz wracks his brain trying to _remember._  

_Tha gaol agam ort. Tha gaol agam ort._  

_Where had he heard that before?_  

Fitz can’t for the life of him remember and he finally gives up trying to figure it out, instead opting to simply ask Jemma what secret she’s just revealed. For a moment he’s certain that he sees disappointment flash behind her eyes, but then she’s beaming up at him and looping her arm through his with a fond laugh. 

“That’s for me to know Fitz.” 

She tugs him along the weathered path without another word and Fitz makes a mental note to look into the mysterious, yet oddly familiar, words when he next gets the chance. 

-O- 

They’re in the midst of a game of twenty questions, not the _actual_ game so much as a back and forth of inquiries that they each take turns answering, when Jemma says, “How do you decide which songs to play when?” 

It’s not the question Fitz was expecting considering the last one had been about his first love and the one before _that_ was about the debacle that was his parents’ relationship, and he blinks for a moment as he turns to her. 

She’s looking at him with a curious expression and Fitz furrows his brows for a moment as he thinks about his answer. He already _knows_ the answer of course, but he’s not entirely sure he can articulate it in a way that will make Jemma _truly_ understand. 

“Umm… usually it depends on what kind of people are around. I want to play stuff people might actually stop and listen to. When there’s a large tourist crowd I play stuff they’d know, typical radio tunes and all that. If there are less people and most of them are locals, I usually play Frightened Rabbit or We Were Promised Jetpacks… maybe some Admiral Fallow on occasion. You know… Scottish bands.” 

Jemma nods at this and Fitz can see that she actually _does_ understand why he plays what when. He can almost hear her silent question asking why he plays his own music when _nobody_ is around and tenses slightly as he waits for it to become audible. Instead, she just nods her head and keeps walking. 

It’s silent for a moment, save for Fitz’s slight wheezing as the hill becomes steeper, but then Jemma’s turning to him with what Fitz would normally refer to as a shit-eating grin. “Ever include any Proclaimers to your set-list?” 

His face immediately blanches the instant her question leaves her mouth and he’s sure to make his body visibly shiver so Jemma can comprehend that he most certainly _does not_ include any songs from _that_ particular Scottish group into his daily routine. 

She laughs at his reaction and raises an eyebrow at him with the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “What? Why not?! Aren’t they like… Scotland’s equivalent to the Beatles?” 

Fitz grimaces again and looks at her as though she’s just told him that the only thing he’d be able to eat for the rest of his life is haggis. 

“First of all, there is no one equivalent to the Beatles- alright, Jemma, you can wipe that smug English grin off your face- and _second_ of all… while _some_ Scotsmen and women might have an affinity for the Proclaimers… I am _not_ one of them.” 

“But _Fiiiiiiitz…_ ” 

It comes out as a bit of a whine and Fitz keeps his eyes forward so he doesn’t have to see her caramel doe eyes pleading with him. 

“Nope.” 

She’s silent for a few moments, likely trying to silently sulk, but Fitz can see the small smile on her face and braces himself for whatever might be coming next. They walk for a few moments before he sees Jemma’s mouth open in his peripheral vision and sighs at her persistence. 

“Isn’t it funny that you’re from Glasgow, living in London, and _I’m_ from London but living in Glasgow?” 

Fitz blinks at the question, surprised by the sudden change of topic, and slows his pace slightly as he turns to look at her in confusion. “Yeah… I mean… I guess?” 

Jemma hums at this before facing forward again and tapping her chin with a finger as though she’s a renowned detective from a Christie novel. 

“How far do you think Glasgow is from London anyway? I mean… it must be nearly… _500 miles._ ” 

Fitz’s eyes furrow for the briefest of moments before he realizes that Jemma _really_ overemphasized the last two words and his mind pieces together what she’s done. He groans at the fact that she completely played him and, what’s worse is that he actually _fell_ for it. He begins to shake his head vigorously, throwing in a few adamant no’s before making his feelings even more clear with an, “Abso-bloody-lutely _not_ Jemma.” 

She immediately cackles at his irritation and actually has to pause for a moment to effectively oversell how hilarious she finds herself to be. When she straightens from her hunched over position, there are tears of laughter in her eyes that Fitz would very much like to brush off her face. 

_Because he’s irritated she finds herself so funny._

_That’s the only reason._

“Oh _please_ Fitz? For me?” 

Jemma bats her eyelashes at him and Fitz grumbles under his breath before pushing past her, knowing full well that it’ll only be a second before she’s back at his side. 

“I won’t play that song for the damn tourists that request it and I _certainly_ won’t play it for you. Not now not ever.” 

“Aww but _Fitz… won’t you be the man who walks 500 miles to fall down at my door?”_

The mirth in her eyes is too much for even _him_ to grump at and his mouth quirks up for a fraction of a second, which is a fraction too long for Jemma not to notice. She grins up at him in triumph and loops her arm through his, all the while humming the Proclaimers under her breath. 

He doesn’t mention that if he _were_ to walk 500 miles for anyone, it’d likely be her. 

-O- 

When they finally make it back to the car Jemma immediately moves towards the driver’s seat with a hopeful grin and Fitz is quick to tug her backwards before she can actually clamber into the vehicle. 

She gives him a petulant look, lip wobble and all, before crossing her arms and wrinkling her nose in the way Fitz is _sure_ she knows has become one of favorite things about her. He becomes even _more_ certain that Jemma knows what that nose-scrunch does to him when she takes advantage of his distraction by lunging forward and snatching for the car keys that are dangling loosely in his hand. 

He manages to snap out of his daze _just_ before her hand makes contact with the cool metal in his fingers, lifting his arm above his head and keeping the keys out of her reach. She makes a few failed attempts at jumping and grappling for his hand, but gives up when she sees Fitz biting his lip to keep his laughter at bay. 

She falls back onto her heels, crossing her arms once again, and levels him with a glare that Fitz doesn’t fall for in the slightest. 

“I want to drive.” 

The demand finally causes his laughter to break free and Fitz throws his head back as the hysterics overtake him. When he catches Jemma’s glare, he only laughs harder. 

He’s still grinning when he moves to place a hand on her back, guiding her to the passenger side of the car, and says, “Not a chance.” 

Jemma of course, being the most stubborn human he’s ever met, resists his attempt to lead her to _her_ seat and plants her feet in the ground as she looks up at him with a defiant expression. 

“I’ll have you know that I’m quite a good driver.” 

Fitz chuckles slightly at this and opens the door, fully intent on simply waiting Jemma out. “Even if I believed that- which, just to clarify, I _don’t-_ I still wouldn’t let you get behind the wheel.” 

“And just why not?” 

She’s standing in front of the open door, making no move to get in, and Fitz sighs in exasperation as he glances at his watch and wonders how fast he’ll have to drive to make sure Jemma gets back to the city by the time she requested. 

“Because this isn’t my car and if anything happens to it then I’ll likely end up on one of your disgusting dissection tables as a corpse that’s been donated to science… since I’ll be _dead_.” 

He cracks a smile at his joke but Jemma seems not to have heard it, instead focusing on the _first_ bit of his sentence. Her eyes widen and she thwacks him on the chest before he even sees her fist coming. 

“You _stole_ this?!” 

It comes out as a yelp and Fitz winces slightly at the high frequency that Jemma’s voice manages to reach when she’s upset with him. He raises his hands in defense and placatingly says, “ _Borrowed,_ ” in the hopes that it might get her to quit pacing fast enough to give him vertigo. 

“Oh my god. I can’t believe I let you trick me into joining your bad-boy shenanigans. I’m an accomplice. Oh my god, I’m an accomplice to theft!” 

Fitz flings an arm out to stop Jemma from wearing a hole in the concrete parking lot and rolls his eyes at her expression. 

“Will you relax? I _borrowed_ it from _Coulson…_ ” 

The statement actually _does_ cause her to relax. Fitz can see her shoulders go back to where they’re meant to be, no longer level with her ears, and her whole body seems to drain the tension that she’s been carrying since his admittance that the car wasn’t exactly his to take. 

“I didn’t necessarily _tell_ him I was borrowing it but… still. No need to get in such a tizzy you dainty English rose.” 

Jemma’s eyes narrow, first at his admission that he’d essentially lied to Coulson and then even more at the nickname he’s given her. She moves forward, thwacks him squarely in the chest, and then backs away, plopping herself in the passenger seat of the old Corvette with a huff. 

Her glaring silent treatment only lasts until the first corner Fitz speeds around, before being replaced immediately by excited laughter and the fond smile that causes his heart to move faster than the car he’s driving. 

-O-

In the week leading up to their booked recording session, Fitz and Jemma, along with Donnie and Seth, spend every moment of free time working together and practicing the songs that Fitz thinks are strong enough to actually be recorded. 

Each day spent together seems to smooth out the rough edges of the new group until the quadruplet can play and banter together with ease. There are certainly a few moments of tension, arguing over lyrics and whether certain chords work in certain sections, but by Saturday morning, when they’re all gathered outside the studio, Fitz is actually feeling marginally less panicky about the whole thing.

In fact, he’s actually feeling rather excited. 

Meaning he deflates almost instantly when introduced to the multi-hat-wearing sound mixer _slash_ producer, who takes one look at him and rolls his eyes with a huff of irritation and a muttered, “Fantastic. What a waste of a weekend.” 

The lack of faith seems to transform the excited nerves into just _nerves_ and Fitz barely hears anything that the other man says as he monotonously points out the equipment and briefly gives them a laydown of what his role will be. 

By the time the other man finishes speaking, Fitz realizes that he’s missed absolutely everything but is too aware of the fact that the producer seems as though he’d rather be locked in solitary confinement than be here with them in this moment. 

So, he keeps his mouth shut and gives an unconvincing nod that has the other man sighing and exasperatedly herding the group into the other room to set up their instruments. 

There’s a keyboard already in place for Jemma, and a gleaming drum kit that Donnie eagerly moves towards, so only Fitz and Seth are left to settle in with their own instruments. The amps are basic enough, so they make quick work of setting themselves up before Fitz releases a shaky sigh and turns to the others with a look of trepidation. 

“Okay so… this is… I suppose this is it. We’ve got two days to do this so… let’s just give it our all, yeah? And just… let’s just do our best.” 

Donnie and Seth nod sagely, reacting more seriously than Fitz has ever seen them to date, and Jemma gives him an encouraging smile that makes him think that this might not be such a catastrophe after all. 

He takes a deep breath before turning around to face the glass window separating the recording room from the actual booth, and sees their producer chatting on the phone and paying them no mind, throwing them the occasional glance that, though fleeting, makes it abundantly clear that he has no faith in any of them.

Fitz can see the way that the man in the other room, _Ward,_ is looking at him and his friends, not taking them seriously and likely mocking them with whomever is on the other end of his mobile. 

_American prick._

Fitz coughs slightly, flexing his fingers to try and shake the nerves, before leaning forward and saying, “Ready when you are,” into the microphone in front of him.

Ward blatantly rolls his eyes at this, nodding and waving his hand dismissively, and Fitz shifts nervously in place as the feelings of panic and regret begin to permeate through him. He’d assumed they’d just jump right into it before he’d have time to unleash his self-doubt, but the delay caused by Ward’s phone call allows Fitz the time to question everything. 

_What the hell is he doing?_  

He's no musician, he's an engineer that'll be starting a typical 9-5 come next week and shouldn't be deluding himself into thinking that recording his music will do any good. The word _mistake_ rolls around in his brain until it seems to be the only thing in his vocabulary. He can feel his heart begin to hammer in his chest at the thought of how much money and time he's wasted on this and feels his breathing become shallower and shallower with each passing second. 

He looks at the man in the other room again, feet still propped up and finger tilted in the, "one moment," gesture, and feels the last of his confidence dissipate immediately. Despite the late nights re-writing lyrics and practicing each song with the small group behind him until they could play it at the drop of a hat, Fitz is overcome with doubt and uncertainty. 

_He can't do this._

"Yes you can." 

The soft voice startles Fitz and he turns to face Jemma who's perched on the piano bench as though it's the only place she was ever meant to be. She's looking at him with an expression that is half determination, half sincerity, and Fitz finds himself so distracted by the way the studio lights glint in her eyes that he forgets what it is she's actually said. 

"What?" 

Jemma shifts slightly on the bench so that she can face him fully and levels him with a look that makes his heart double in speed and his hands grow clammy. 

"Don't pay attention to him Fitz. And don't doubt yourself. You _can_ do this, and more importantly you _should._ Your music is good and you won't regret this. _Trust_ me." 

Her eyes are still bright, face now a bit red from her mini-speech of encouragement, and Fitz can't help but feel wholly undeserving of Jemma's unwavering confidence. There still an unnamed figure in the back of his mind that's listing all of the reasons why this is a _bad_ idea, but Fitz finds that he'd much prefer listening to the woman in front of him. 

Still... he feels as though she might be a bit biased towards him and the music after investing so much time into both, and can't stop himself from tentatively asking, "Really?" 

At first Jemma merely rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh, but when she looks back at him and notes the way he's anxiously rubbing his neck, she gives a soft smile that blossoms into a cocky grin as she says, "I am a certified genius after all." 

The words and Jemma's expression of utter confidence seem to be the exact combination necessary to form a crack in the wall that is Fitz’s crippling insecurity and he feels the slow regrowth of his confidence in the face of _her_ confidence. He gives her a look of complete gratitude that Jemma returns with an eager thumbs up and a wink that causes Fitz to flush to his roots. 

Not really in the mood to give Jemma something _else_ to tease him with, Fitz turns back around and tosses a quarter at the plexiglass barrier separating him from the SHIELD producer. The loud thwack gets the other man's attention and Fitz gives him an aggravated look as he leans towards the mic and says, "Any day now mate. It's not like we're paying a shit ton of money for this recording time." 

He hears Jemma's muffled laughter and Donnie and Seth's quiet whooping behind him and quirks a challenging eyebrow at the man in the other room. 

Ward raises his own eyebrows at Fitz's words before slowly moving his feet off of the soundboard in front of him and speaking slowly into the phone. Fitz can't hear what he's saying, but a few seconds later the man places the mobile on the table so Fitz assumes it was the equivalent of, "goodbye." 

He's actually pretty sure it was more along the lines of, "This untalented schmuck is trying to get me to express interest in his session, I'll call you back in a few minutes when these kids fail spectacularly," but doesn’t want to waste the time to ask. 

"Alright, guys. Three clicks and then it's recording." 

Ward’s voice is blunt, making it clear that he'd rather be anywhere else and most decidedly does _not_ have an interest in them or their music, and Fitz feels a spark of rage at the fact that the other man doesn't even have the common courtesy to be professional. 

Or at least _fake_ it. 

Fitz narrows his eyes in irritation before turning slightly to smile encouragingly -he _hopes-_ at each of his new band mates, and then facing forward again and giving the SHIELD robot a stiff nod to indicate that they're ready to go. 

Fitz watches as the man presses a button before leaning back into his chair, reaching for his mobile, and leaving the group to their own devices. Fitz takes a deep breath as the sound of the first click reaches his ears, exhales on the second, and closes his eyes when he hears the third. 

He lets his mind shut everything else out, everything other than the lyrics flitting through his brain and the notes to be brandished on his guitar, and begins to strum the first chords, of the first song, of his first demo. 

Once he begins playing the nerves seem to disappear and the music becomes the only thing he's aware of. 

He listens as the steady drumbeat joins his playing, smiles slightly when the second guitar joins the fray, and feels as though he's floating on air at the sound of Jemma's voice merging with the melodic notes of the piano. 

They play the song in its entirety and it's not until the last notes echo in the small room that Fitz opens his eyes again. 

He's breathing a bit heavily, the combination of the exertion of singing and adrenaline coursing through his body making it difficult to get a proper lungful of air, but the second Fitz looks through the Plexiglas and sees Mr. Robot, he feels an almost hysterical giddiness begin to make its way through him. 

The other man is standing over the soundboard with one earphone pressed against his head as he adjusts toggles and presses buttons that Fitz doesn't understand in the slightest. But _this_ man does understand them and his fingers are flying over the various boards with the ease of a practiced producer. 

Which means he _cares._

He'd heard them and, though Fitz missed it since his eyes were closed, at some point during the song he'd decided that they were worth something. 

They’re worth his time, his expertise, and his energy and _that_ realization causes Fitz to laugh in delight. 

The sound catches the other man’s attention and he looks up, eyes zeroing in on Fitz and holding his gaze for a few tense seconds, before giving him a nod and small smile that Fitz knows is the equivalent of a white flag. 

Fitz gives him a thumbs up, smile not leaving his face, before turning around to catch Jemma’s eye. She’s absolutely _beaming_ at him, as are Donnie and Seth, and Fitz feels a outpouring of energy and excitement at the knowledge that they’d just successfully recorded a song together. 

_His song._  

“That was great guys. Let’s try it once more from the top with a softer beat and a bit more of the backup vocals.” 

Fitz turns around to face Jemma with a grin and lets out a laugh at the brief glare she sends Ward’s way. Her eyes soften when they meet his and she gives him a small nod that has Fitz turning to face the boys with a raised brow. They nod eagerly at him and Fitz shifts back to face the microphone and Ward. 

“Okay. From the top.” 

The go ahead seems to flip a switch in Ward, who immediately begins readjusting nozzles and levels, holding up a finger to hold them off before pointing to Fitz with a nod and hitting ‘RECORD.’ 

-O- 

They record all through the day and well into the night, taking the occasional catnap on the worn couches in the studio and bouncing ideas off of each other with enthusiasm. 

Ward isn’t much one for idle chitchat but he knows what he’s doing and makes suggestions after each recording, encouraging them to play their strengths and not holding back in the slightest when he thinks something doesn’t work. Fitz finds himself growing increasingly confident with each song they cross off the, “to be recorded,” list and finds himself bolstered by the creativity that surrounds him. 

By 9 the next morning, they’re all exhausted and unanimously decide to take a breakfast break before continuing forward. Seth and Donnie take everyone’s orders before bolting in the direction of a nearby diner, eager for a change of scenery and even _more_ eager for food that is more substantial than the snacks that SHIELD had provided for them. 

Jemma climbs up from the couch that she and Fitz were sharing, stretching languidly before moving towards the door, ruffling his hair as she passes him, with a quick, “I’m just going to stretch my legs.” 

Fitz gives her a small smile as Ward tilts his head in indication that he’s heard her, and then the two men are left alone in silence as they await the return of the others. Fitz leans back on the couch, resting his forearm to cover his eyes, and does his best to temporarily quiet his mind and give himself a break from the constant work of the day. 

“Did you write all of these?” 

The question startles him and he quickly sits up to see Ward sipping on a black coffee and peering at him with a curious expression that makes Fitz lean forward and clutch his forgotten mug of tea like a lifeline. He rubs an exhausted hand over his face as he nods at Ward’s question and waits for whatever criticism might be headed his way. 

Instead, all he hears is a contemplative hum. 

Fitz chances a glance at the other man and sees that Ward is now reclined across the other couch with his eyes closed, apparently no longer interested in the minimal conversation. Fitz isn’t entirely sure what to make of that and only lasts another minute in the silence before he stands with a groan and says, “I’m just gonna go find Jemma.” 

He just makes it to the door when he hears a muffled, “They’re good,” come from behind him. He pauses briefly, just long enough to mumble a sincere, “Thanks,” before leaving the room in search of Jemma. 

-O- 

He finds her in another studio a few rooms down from the one they’ve been playing in, sitting on a bench in front of a massive grand piano that Fitz is certain costs more than his entire flat. Her fingers are roving over the keys and there’s a reverence in her eyes that Fitz himself feels while looking at _her._

“Well, are you gonna play something or are you just gonna sit there?” 

His voice is teasing but the question is serious and Jemma turns to him with a small smile that grows at the expectant look on his face. 

“Depends… any requests?” She quirks her head with a grin and he returns it instinctually as he walks towards her and joins her on the piano bench. 

“One of ours. My music, _your_ lyrics.” 

Jemma rolls her eyes at this, bumping her shoulder against his before removing her hands from the ivory keys just long enough to wave one dismissively in his direction. 

“How ‘bout some Debussy instead?” 

Her fingers begin to play the opening of Clair de Lune before she’s even finished speaking and Fitz quickly covers them with his own to get her to stop. She turns to him with a bit of trepidation as he levels her with a look and Fitz knows that _Jemma_ knows that she won’t be leaving the room without sharing some of her own words. 

“I have one but… it’s not finished and… it’s not good.” 

She bites her lip and, despite an overwhelming urge to focus on the way her teeth worry indents into her lip, Fitz manages to maintain eye contact and transmit as much encouragement as he can when he says, “Rubbish.” 

Her expression turns skeptical and Fitz squeezes her hand in an attempt to motivate her. “Everything about you is _better_ than good Jem. I doubt this will be any different.” 

He pulls his hand away and shifts his gaze as he speaks, certain that his words combined with the awe in his eyes will reveal too much to the woman beside him. 

It’s silent for a few moments that feel like an eternity and when Fitz looks back up, Jemma is peering at him with a soft look that makes him think that maybe the words alone were enough for her to realize how deep he’s already fallen. She clears her throat slightly after a moment, tucking her hair behind her ear and shifting her gaze down to her hands. 

“The lyrics are very rough.” 

It comes out softly but the hesitancy behind Jemma’s words makes Fitz bump her shoulder in the same way she’d done earlier. “It’ll be great. Just play it.” 

She shifts her hands slightly on the piano, fingers arching in preparation, and takes a deep breath before the notes begin to pour out of her. Fitz watches in awe as her fingers dance across the keys and then feels the air leave his lungs when her voice rings out. “ _I wish I didn't have to make all those mistakes and be wise._ ” 

Her voice rings out in the small room and Fitz feels his chest constrict as he focuses on the words that are pouring out of her. 

“ _Please try to be patient and know that I'm still learning_. _I'm sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning_.” 

Fitz can hear the way Jemma’s voice is beginning to waver and, when he looks at her, he sees the broken and worn woman that she’s been careful to conceal. He sees the small child desperate for her father’s approval, the young girl who likely felt just as along as he had in a world of near-adults, and the woman forced to give up her own dreams to help care for someone who can’t quite care for themself. 

“ _But where are you my angel now? Don't you see me crying_?” 

A sniffle follows the words and Fitz sucks in a breath, knowing that this song is likely a hundred times more personal than anything he’s penned. 

“ _And I know that you can't do it all but you can't say I'm not trying_ …” 

Jemma’s voice breaks off with a shallow sob and Fitz is wrapping his arms around her before her fingers even leave the keyboard. She tucks herself into him, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck and choking out a few muffled sobs as her fingers wrap around his shirt. 

“Shh… Jemma… Jem, it’s okay.” 

She clutches him tighter and Fitz pulls her in, ducking his own head to wrap himself around her as best he can. She releases a few more sniffles and Fitz can feel her tears soak through his shirt just as well as he can feel the gasping breaths of air that puff against his throat. 

“It’s _not_. I’m exhausted and I’m trying _…_ I’m _only_ trying to help but… I don’t think I can do it Fitz.” 

She pulls away slightly, heaving a few shaky breaths and wiping the tears as she stares down with a look of such hopelessness that Fitz immediately reaches out again, gently pushing her hair behind her ear and letting his hand linger long enough to allow his thumb to brush soothing circles across her cheek. 

“Hey, look at me.”

She tilts her head slightly to meet him with watery eyes and Fitz feels as though whatever he says next could have a drastic impact in some form or another. His hand moves from her face to her shoulder and he gives it a soft squeeze before saying, “You’re so strong Jemma.” 

She rolls her eyes at this and Fitz tightens his grip on her shoulders in the hopes that she’ll actually _hear_ what it is he’s trying to say. “I’m serious! I don’t… I don’t know how you do it, honestly I don’t. You’re selfless and kind and I know you’re struggling but… you’re amazing Jemma. Don’t ever doubt that or yourself.” 

She gives him a watery smile, moving her hand to cover his where it’s resting on her shoulder, and let’s out a soft, “Thanks Fitz,” that doesn’t quite hide her still somber mood.

It’s silent for a few moments, save for the occasional sniffle from Jemma, and Fitz decides to voice an idea that he’s been contemplating since almost the first day of knowing her. 

“Come with me back to London.” 

The words leave his mouth before Fitz even fully processes the fact that he’s vocalized them. His eyes widen and, if he weren’t so content with the way Jemma’s fingers feel on top his, he likely would have pulled his hand away to slap over his mouth. Jemma seems just as shocked by his outburst because she stares at him, mouth agape and eyes wide as her fingers go slack atop his. 

“What?” 

It comes out as a whispered gasp, but to Fitz Jemma’s question sounds as though it were shouted through a megaphone directly into his ear. Her surprise makes him falter for a moment but, the fact of the matter is, he doesn’t actually regret pitching the idea. In fact, now that he’s finally allowed himself to voice it, Fitz can’t think of anything better. 

He turns on the bench to face her more fully, an excited expression making its way across his face, and flips his hand over so that he can twine his fingers with Jemma’s. 

“Come with me! It’d be _perfect_ Jemma. My flat’s only a few blocks away from Imperial and I’m _obviously_ in need of a new roommate. You could work on your PhD during the day while I’m at work and then we can just make music all night! Together!” 

Fitz watches as nearly every emotion on the spectrum seems to flit across Jemma’s face. He feels his heart begin to speed up at the initial excitement behind Jemma’s eyes and mentally crosses every finger and limb in the hopes that she might actually be considering his proposition. 

Then a cloud seems to overtake her and Fitz feels his swelling chest immediately deflate like a balloon. Jemma’s face hardens briefly before morphing into one of disappointment that gives Fitz a pretty good idea of what her answer will be. 

“Yeah? And where does my grandmother fit into that perfect life you’ve envisioned?” 

Even though he’s expecting the rebuttal, Fitz’s smile falters at Jemma’s words and the second it does, she gives a short nod of the head and a resigned quirk of the lips before turning her gaze back to the piano and away from him. 

“It’s just not in the cards for me.” 

Fitz lets out a soft sigh, nodding his head in understanding even though Jemma isn’t looking at him, and squeezes her hand once before standing up from the bench. “C’mon. I’m sure Seth and Donnie are back by now. Let’s eat and then finish this thing.” 

He sees Jemma blink back a few unshed tears and tentatively holds out his hand for her to take. Fitz knows that he can’t even begin to imagine what it is that Jemma is thinking and feeling, but he hopes that she knows that he’s here in whatever way she needs him. 

She glances at his hand and looks up at him with a shaky smile, grabbing his fingers with her own and letting Fitz tug her to her feet and back down the hall to where the other men are waiting for them. 

They walk in silence and all Fitz can focus on is that brief instant of excitement where it looked as though Jemma wanted nothing more than to say yes. 

-O- 

By the time the final note, of the final take, of the final song, rings out in the studio, Fitz’s throat is raw and he’s simultaneously more exhausted and excited than he remembers being in his entire life. 

The music has barely faded to silence before Jemma is pouncing on him from behind and squeezing him in a tight hug that leaves Fitz breathless for more than one reason. He can hear Seth and Donnie high-fiving and whooping behind him but all Fitz can really focus on is the way Jemma’s head is pressed between his shoulder blades and the way her arms wrap around his abdomen. 

He shifts around so that he can wrap his own arms around _her_ and feels his grin widen at the cheerful babbling that is streaming out of Jemma’s mouth and into his ear. She’s going on and on about how _good_ he was and how _proud_ she is but Fitz finds himself not caring about the words even half as much as he cares about the person _saying_ them. 

He’s about to tell her as much, to finally just open his mouth and confess before the day’s courage leaves him entirely, but in the next second Donnie and Seth are turning his moment with Jemma into an impromptu group hug and the words float away before Fitz even has the chance to vocalize them. 

They break apart with fond smiles and everyone begins chattering until they hear a sharp knock on the glass divide and all turn to look in Ward’s direction as the other man begins speaking into the small intercom. 

“That’s a wrap guys. The digital files are processing and will be sent over when they’re done, but in the meantime…” Ward holds up a freshly burned CD that _almost_ brings elated tears to Fitz’s eyes. “…let’s go.” 

Ward cocks his head before walking out of the other room and leaving Fitz and the other three gaping after him. They all exchange confused looks before Jemma just shrugs her shoulders and moves to the door, intent on following Ward wherever he disappeared to. 

Fitz and the boys are close enough behind that they manage to catch Jemma asking, “Go where?” as she hurries to match Ward’s long stride. The other man doesn’t falter, if anything Fitz thinks he might quicken his pace, and heaves a small sigh at the realization that, just because they’ve finished recording doesn’t mean Jemma’s barrage of questions and opinions will stop anytime soon. 

“We know this stuff sounds good coming out of quality speakers, the real test is seeing if it sounds good coming out of _shitty_ speakers.” 

Fitz slightly understands Ward’s point but still can’t quite grasp what it is that they’re doing. 

_Does SHIELD have lousy speakers in some back room just for this purpose?_

Apparently not because Ward bypasses all of the rooms in the hallway and marches straight towards the exit, pushing open the door just as Fitz says, “So…” 

When the entire group is gathered outside, Ward locks up the studio and points to a nice looking SUV parked down the street before walking towards it and calling, “So we’re going on a mini road trip,” over his shoulder. 

-O-

 They weave through the streets of Glasgow, blasting their new record and marveling at the fact that, even coming out of Ward’s car speakers, _it sounds good._

Their voices blend together with the instrumentals and Fitz feels an overwhelming sense of pride at the fact that this ragtag band of misfits managed to create something that has meaning. Because it _does._ Maybe not to the rest of the world or any large-scale population, but to each person crammed together in this car this record is _meaningful._

Even to Ward, who manages to crack a smile when the CD comes to an end and a chorus of four voices demand that he play it again. 

They somehow make it all the way to Prestwick beach, where Ward illegally parks his car on the sand and leaves the music playing through the open windows as the group all but frolics along the shore. 

There’s a giddy weightlessness that seems to surround them all and Fitz laughs jovially as he gives Jemma a piggyback ride and watches Donnie try to do the same for Seth. The boys land in a sandy heap and Jemma’s laughter vibrates through Fitz as he tightens his hold on her legs and grins when she burrows her head into the back of his neck. 

They watch the sunset atop Ward’s car and listen to the soft melody of their music as it washes over them in time with the darkness. 

When the CD comes to a stop after its fifth time being played, the small group exchanges silent looks before picking themselves up and squeezing back into the car, exhausted from the weekend and ready to go home. They sit in content silence, watching the streetlights flash by, and Fitz hopes that everyone else feels just as proud and accomplished as he does. 

-O- 

They pull to a stop outside of the SHIELD studios and when they all clamber out of the car, beaming smiles on each of their faces, Ward moves towards Fitz and hands him something that causes a warmth to flood him. 

“You guys did a great job. And you should be proud of that.” Ward nods towards the stack of CD’s in Fitz’s hands with a sincere smile that Fitz never would have guessed he’d see after their first introduction. When Ward extends his hand, Fitz doesn’t hesitate to grasp it in his own and shake it in appreciation. Their rocky start had dissipated after that first song and Fitz is happy to have had the opportunity to work with the other man. 

“Thank you.” 

It’s not much but, considering Ward himself isn’t a man of many words, Fitz feels that the other man can likely pick out the gratitude within his words. He seems to because in the next moment Ward is clapping Fitz on the back with a small smile and turning back towards his car, likely eager to get some sleep after a weekend of recording. 

The small group left behind waves Ward off with fond smiles, turning back together when his car turns a corner and disappears from sight. 

Donnie and Seth look at him as though he’s some sort of hero and Fitz steps forward to wrap his arms around the two boys and mutter his profuse thanks for all of their help. They scoff at his thanks, telling him that it’s been the best weekend of their lives, and Fitz eagerly hands them each a CD. 

Their eyes widen in wonder as they read their names, neatly printed next to their role in the making of the CD, and Fitz can hear Jemma giggle softly beside him. The noise causes both boys to turn to her in unison and simultaneously place smacking kisses on each of her cheeks. 

The action causes Jemma’s giggles to transform into a boisterous laugh and Fitz watches as the three people who’d helped him so much hug each other affectionately before reaching out their arms and pulling him into the fray. 

-O- 

After exchanging goodbyes, Fitz and Jemma break away from the rest of the group and begin to walk silently down the empty street with smiles on their faces. The smiles are still in place when they reach Jemma’s bus stop and seem to grow each time they make eye contact. 

The smiles don’t last long though because after a few minutes, Jemma releases a heavy sigh that immediately gets Fitz’s attention. He glances over at her with a look of concern and sees that her previously bright expression now seems to be clouded with an underlying sadness that confuses him. 

“You’re leaving tomorrow.” 

Her words are quiet but they’re still enough to cause his heart to seemingly come to a stop. The realization that he _is_ leaving tomorrow brings a crushing weight and Fitz suddenly thinks that Jemma’s melancholy expression seems wholly understandable. He’s sure that his own face now looks just as glum because the thought of leaving Glasgow, more specifically the thought of leaving _Jemma,_ makes him want to curl up into a ball and cry beneath his bed. 

He opens his mouth a few times, struggling to think of how to respond and what he could possibly say that would accurately convey how much he doesn’t _want_ to leave. How much he’d rather stay here for some indeterminate amount of time and make music with her until their voices are raw from use and the calluses on their hands have turned to granite. 

He sucks in a breath and stares at her, hoping that she can read him as effortlessly as always, and releases it slowly, saying, “Come over tonight,” on the exhale. 

Her head snaps up at him but, unlike the last time, Fitz doesn’t see any anger or irritation in her eyes. He realizes that he’s likely just seeing what he _wants_ to see, but Fitz is almost certain that, beneath the caramel irises, there is a desperate longing to say yes. 

She looks at him with a wry grin before raising an eyebrow and making Fitz feel as though he’s back in primary school about to get lectured by his school teacher. He knows what she _thinks_ he’s getting at and does his very best to emphasize that his intentions are as pure as humanly possible. 

“C’mon. We can watch some Who, gorge ourselves on whatever’s in my fridge, spoiler all I’ve got is beer and sriracha, and then just… you know, go to bed.” 

Her other eyebrow raises at this and, though a _small, teeny tiny,_ part of him means it the way it sounded, Fitz quickly moves to clarify the statement. “To sleep!I meant then we can go to bed to _sleep.”_  

His face is bright red and only reddens more when he sees Jemma trying not to laugh. She raises her other eyebrow and grins at him in amusement before saying, “Oh _really_ , to sleep? So you’re telling me that, if I come over tonight, all we’ll do is eat and watch TV… and there won’t be _any_ sort of hanky panky?” 

He pauses longer than he should, he _knows_ he does, but Jemma saying, “hanky panky,” naturally causes his mind to think of _hanky panky with Jemma_. He blinks quickly at the visual before swallowing and slowly shaking his head in the negative, making sure to keep his eyes trained on the woman in front of him. 

The look Jemma gives him makes it clear that she doesn’t believe him for a second and Fitz fidgets slightly beneath her gaze, hoping that his inability to keep his attraction to her hidden won’t cause her to storm off again. She bites her lip and tilts her head as she looks at him and Fitz thinks his heart might stop beating when she begins to slowly nod her head. 

“Okay.” 

Fitz blinks at the word and stares at her in befuddlement as he tries to process what she’s saying _._ He’d told her that if she came over there wouldn’t be any hanky panky, and she silently told him she didn’t believe him. But then she said she _would_ come over which means… that means… 

His eyes widen slightly at the implication behind that single word before softening at the look that Jemma is giving him, a mix between affection and endearment. He feels a small smile make its way across his face as he himself begins to nod and repeats her own answer back to her, “Okay.” 

Jemma bites her lip again but Fitz can see the smile just as clearly in her eyes and feels a flutter of excitement in his chest at the prospect of spending the night, and then _spending the night,_ with the woman who had quickly consumed his world. He’s on the verge of vibrating with elation and Jemma must be able to tell because she releases a small chuckle and shoves him slightly, which is still enough to make him lose his balance. 

“I have to check in on my grandmother first.” 

She gives him a pointed look at this and Fitz finds himself nodding rapidly as he says, “Yeah, yeah of course.” 

He can see the headlights of her bus down the road as it approaches the stop but it doesn’t distract him enough not to hear Jemma’s soft, “But after I do…” 

Fitz steps forward and stares at her, suddenly feeling as if this moment is the most important of his life. “You’ll meet me later? You’ll stop by?” 

Fitz thinks he sees Jemma’s eyes cloud over slightly, either at his words or the desperation behind them, but then she blinks and they seem just as clear as ever. She gives him a small smile, not quite as large as those earlier, and steps forward to squeeze his arm. 

“Yeah. I’ll stop by.” 

She moves to get on the bus but Fitz quickly grabs her arm before she can get too far away. When she turns to look at him in question, he leans forward and places a lingering kiss on her cheek before lightly squeezing her shoulder and pulling away. 

She stares at him for a few moments with a noticeable sheen to her eyes that confuses him, before jumping at the sound of the bus driver honking his horn. Her lips quirk up for a fraction of a second before she spins around and climbs into the bus. 

Fitz watches as she moves towards the back and plops down in a windows seat. He watches as she seems to take a deep breath, watches as she turns to face him with an expression he can’t quite make sense of, and keeps watching as the bus pulls away and she moves her hand slowly against the glass. 

He watches until the bus and Jemma disappear from sight and wonders why it seems as though she was waving goodbye. 

-O- 

He keeps his eyes open and his ears trained on the door for as long as he can before falling asleep with a sharp feeling in his chest and the harsh realization that it seemed as though Jemma was waving goodbye on the bus because she _was._  

-O- 

Fitz wakes up the next morning with a stiff neck and a hollow feeling in his chest. He glances around at his surroundings and realizes that he’d fallen asleep on the couch, waiting for a knock that never came. 

He trudges towards the bathroom to get cleaned up, intentionally avoiding the mirror and the reflection of the forlorn looking man in it.

Once he goes through his standard morning routine, Fitz makes his way back towards his bedroom to make sure that all of his belongings are packed and ready for this afternoon’s departure. They’re stacked neatly in a corner and seeing them makes leaving seem much more real to him. 

The reminder that he’s leaving _today_ sends another ping of sadness through him and Fitz quickly pushes the thought from his mind. He checks his watch and notes that it’s almost time to meet Coulson downstairs to say goodbye and pick up the watch that he’s spent the past few nights fixing. 

He grabs the demo from where he’d left it on the coffee table in the hopes of listening to it once more with Jemma, and makes his way downstairs towards the watch shop. 

Coulson is waiting for him in the back with a pot of tea and plate of scones that cause Fitz’s mouth to water the moment he sees them. The older man ushers him towards the small table in the corner and Fitz doesn’t hesitate to help himself to some of the treats. 

It’s silent for a few moments before Fitz looks up and sees Coulson standing in front of him, one hand on his hip and the other outstretched in front of him. Fitz blushes slightly at the other man’s raised eyebrow and reaches into his back pocket for the demo he’d promised to let Coulson hear. 

When he drops it into Coulson’s palm, Fitz ducks his head back down and focuses on the food spread so that he won’t have to watch the other man as he listens to the music he’d worked so hard on. 

Coulson pops the CD into the stereo on the other side of the room and then comes to sit across from Fitz at the table. The opening notes of the first song begin to filter through the speakers and Fitz chances a glance upwards just as Coulson closes his eyes and furrows his brows as he concentrates on the sound of Fitz and Jemma’s voices. 

By the time the EP has finished playing, Fitz has nervously devoured every morsel of food in front of him and washed it all down with four cups of tea. He nervously fiddles with the saucer in front of him as he awaits Coulson’s reaction. It’s silent for a few tense moments before Coulson shifts in his chair, stands up, and walks over to the stereo. 

Fitz holds his breath as his mind creates a visual of Coulson snapping the CD and telling him to stick with engineering, and only releases it when, instead, his mentor presses play and starts the music over from the beginning. 

When he turns back around he has a beaming smile on his face and, if Fitz isn’t mistaken, a few unshed tears in his eyes. Fitz nervously waits for Coulson to say something, _anything_ really, and can’t stop the sigh of relief that escapes his mouth when the words that leave the older man’s mouth are, “It’s _brilliant_ Fitz.” 

He feels as though a weight has lifted of his shoulders and the first real breath of air has finally made it into his lungs. 

“Really?” 

The hopefulness in his question seems to audibly emphasize the lingering doubt that Fitz has regarding this project and, as is often the case, his paternal figure seems to pick up on it. Coulson turns up the volume of the stereo before walking back over to the table, clapping Fitz on the shoulder, and looking down at him with a warm sincerity that Fitz could only ever associate with the man beside him. 

“ _Really,_ really.”

Fitz grins up at him and all but collapses in his seat, muttering an, “Oh thank god,” that causes Coulson to burst into laughter. 

They spend the next hour chatting amicably, with Fitz thanking Coulson profusely for everything he’s done whenever the chance arises, and discussing all of the things the younger man hopes and _plans_ to do once back in London. His warring passion for engineering and music makes him think that he’ll continue to dabble in both as best he can, and Coulson doesn’t hesitate to encourage him to pursue whatever makes him happy, even if it might be more than one thing. 

Fitz thinks he hears an underlying suggestion in Coulson’s recommendation to pursue _whatever_ makes him happiest and swears that the older man is alluding to the fact that it might actually be a _whomever_ that makes him happiest. 

When it’s time for Coulson to open up shop, Fitz stands from the table and wraps the older man in a hug, promising to continue emailing life updates and vowing not to go so long without visiting again. 

As he’s walking towards the front door Coulson calls his name and Fitz turns around just in time to catch the small box that the other man tosses at him. 

“Won’t want to forget that on the next stop of your goodbye tour.” 

Coulson gives him a smile that is far to knowing for Fitz’s liking so all he does is answer with an eternally grateful, “ _Thank you,”_ as he silently berates himself for almost leaving without the one thing he’d actually come for.

He crosses the room to give Coulson one last hug before turning around and exiting the shop with a small wave and another promise to write. 

-O- 

After his warm goodbyes with Coulson, Fitz sets off in search of the second person that he _really_ doesn’t want to say goodbye to. A small part of him is still hurt that Jemma hadn’t shown up last night, but the much larger part of him understands why she stayed away. 

Fitz knows that she was right, if she’d come over they would have slept together and Fitz would likely have been left waking up to an empty bed.

Or, worse yet, he would have woken up with her still _in_ his bed. 

They’d wake up together and for a few painful seconds, mind still caught in the foggy in between of asleep and awake, Fitz would delude himself into thinking that he’d have the luxury of waking up with her for many days to come. 

So yes, he understands why she didn’t show up. He understands why a night of passion and happiness might not be worth the following heartbreak, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean he’s going to leave without saying goodbye. 

While walking towards Jemma’s home, Fitz passes the little pawnshop that she’d refused to walk into what now feels like a lifetime ago. He pauses for a moment, peering in through the glass window as his mind whirs and runs numbers, before doubling back and pushing the door open. A little bell dings and announces his arrival and Fitz doesn’t have to wait long before a little old man appears from behind a mountain of antiques with a warm smile on his face. 

“Can I help you young man.” 

He’s ready for the question so when it’s asked, Fitz nods immediately and levels the man with a serious expression. 

“I’d like to buy that.” 

The man’s eyes widen as he follows Fitz’s pointing finger and somehow widen even more when they land on the large piano that is pushed up against the wall. The shop owner’s mouth opens and closes a few times as he processes Fitz’s statement and it’s nearly a minute before he turns back to him with a dubious expression. 

“Sir that’s… that’s nearly £2500.” 

Fitz isn’t the least bit surprised by the price. 

He knew coming in that the piano was in immaculate condition, spending what time he had with Jemma made it pretty clear that she took care of the people and things that matter to her, and that the price tag would likely reflect said condition. His eyes shift over to it for a moment and his mind flashes back to the longing look on Jemma’s face when she’d peered into the shop before. 

“You said _nearly_ £2500. How much is it _actually_?” 

Fitz’s tone is firm and the old man blinks again in surprise at his unrelenting attitude. He shuffles over to the piano and plucks up the little red price tag on the bench, glancing at it before straightening and turning to Fitz with a slight wince. 

“£2350.” 

Fitz doesn’t even blink at the number, instead stepping closer to the man and running his hand along the carved wood of the piano. “If I give you an even £2500, could you find a way to deliver it somewhere for me as well?” 

It’s silent for a few moments and when Fitz looks up again the man is gaping at him in slight astonishment. Fitz raises an eyebrow in question and the small movement seems to snap the other man out of his stupor. He blinks a few times before nodding his head, slowly at first and then rapidly as he realizes that Fitz is completely serious. 

“I… Yes… Yes, I think I could manage that.” 

Fitz nods and lets a pleased smile cross his face as he reaches for the red price tag and peels it off of the piano. He rolls the sticky paper into a small ball and sticks it into his pocket as he turns back with a wider grin to face the old man. 

“Great! Do you take credit cards?” 

-O- 

After leaving the shop with an enthusiastic handshake from the owner and a promise that the piano will be delivered to the specified address tomorrow evening, Fitz continues towards the little townhouse that Jemma and her grandmother live in. When it comes into view, he quickens his pace until he’s standing in front of the door. He takes a nervous breath, glancing at his reflection in the small pane of glace, and knocks on the door before stepping back and biting his lip in anticipation as he waits for it to open. 

There’s no sign of movement for quite some time and Fitz is just about to turn around and leave his parting gift in the mailbox when the door creaks open and he’s met with the face of Jemma’s grandmother. 

The older woman’s eyes light up when they land on his face and Fitz is once again stunned at the similarities between her and Jemma. The caramel eyes so full of light send a sharp panging through his gut but he plasters on a smile when the old woman steps forward and gives him a warm hug. 

“Fitz! So nice to see you!” 

He smiles down at her, a bit more sincerely this time, and nods his head in agreement. “It’s nice to see you as well Elizabeth.” 

The slight woman is still smiling up at him but Fitz can see the confusion behind her sepia-toned eyes. He’s not surprised in the least when her curiosity, the same curiosity she’s passed down to Jemma, gets the better of her and she asks, “Whatever are you doing here?” 

Fitz’s cheeks color at the question, all too aware of the small smiles and less than subtle winks that the old woman had sent his way when he’d had dinner with her and Jemma, and he fidgets slightly on the front step. He twists his hands in front of him and looks down at them before glancing back up and stuttering his response. 

“Oh… well, I actually came to see Jemma. I… My flight back to London leaves in a few hours and I… I was hoping to say goodbye.” 

The crestfallen expression that comes across Elizabeth’s face tells Fitz all he needs to know, but it still stings sharply when she says, “Oh Fitz, I’m so sorry but she’s not in at the moment.” 

He shuts his eyes tightly at the statement and feels his heart hammering in his chest as the dread slowly works its way through his system. “Oh… Oh okay. I don’t… I don’t suppose she’ll be back anytime soon?” 

The sadness in Elizabeth’s eyes is more than enough for him to put two and two together and Fitz has to duck his head so he won’t be forced to look at the pitying expression for too long. 

“She’s having Skye bring me dinner so… I’m afraid she likely won’t be home until late. I’m sorry Fitz.” 

Elizabeth’s voice is soft and sincerely apologetic and Fitz sighs in disappointment as he realizes that there’s a very good chance he won’t be able to say the goodbye he’s been dreading for days. He never _wanted_ to say goodbye in the first place, but now that he doesn’t even have the opportunity to, Fitz realizes just how much he longed for one last chance to speak with Jemma. 

But it looks like said chance had passed him by without him realizing it so all Fitz can do is keep his tears at bay and do the other thing he came here for. 

“That’s… that’s alright. Umm… would it be okay if I left something with you? For you to give to her?” 

Elizabeth reaches forward and squeezes his arm softly, giving him a sad smile and nodding her head before he even finishes the question. “Of course Fitz.” 

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the small box that he’d wrapped earlier. He holds the box up to his ear, just to make certain that he can still hear the ticking of the pocket watch, before extending his arm and gently placing it into the older woman’s hands. 

She looks at it for a few moments before mirroring Fitz’s actions and holding the small box up to her ear. He can see the realization cross her face when she hears what he had and bites his lip when he notices that her eyes, _Jemma’s_ eyes, are filling with tears. He feels as though this is a deeply intimate moment that he has no right witnessing, and ducks his head again to offer what little privacy he can. 

His gaze is focused on his twisting hands that still immediately when Elizabeth clutches them in her own and chokes out her thanks. He looks up to see a tremulous smile and a face filled with gratitude that he doesn’t think he deserves. He gives a small shrug of the shoulders, paired with a small smile, before nodding his head and leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to the older woman’s cheek. 

He turns around with a parting wave but only makes it a few feet before he turns around again and almost desperately says, “Could you do me another favor and just… just tell Jemma goodbye for me? And tell her that… that I’m glad I got the chance to know her?” 

The older woman, clutching the wrapped box against her chest, nods her head immediately, an underlying sadness still visible on her face. “I’ll tell her Fitz. And… knowing my granddaughter, I very much believe that she would return the sentiment.” 

He sucks in a shaky breath at that and nods his head again before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning on his heel, desperate to escape before the tears begin to fall. 

It’s not until he pulls up to the Glasgow Airport an hour later that Fitz realizes that the letter he’d spent the night writing and re-writing, signed with love and a phone number, is still tucked in his back pocket instead of gingerly taped to the piano scheduled for delivery tomorrow. 

-O-

 He hesitates at the entrance of the airport, clutching the letter and contemplating whether or not he might have time to go back, to somehow deliver it to its intended recipient. 

One glance to the departure board quickly tells him that, _no,_ he does _not_ have time to do anything other than check-in his bags, go through security, and hurry his way to the appropriate gate. Sighing in dismay, he steps through the automatic doors and does his best not to look over his shoulder. 

He manages to print his ticket and go through security without any trouble and is then faced with the reality that he’s leaving. He begins to weave his way through the crowds of businessmen and vacationing families, pace far slower than normal as his leaded feet seem to drag through the airport. 

One hand is gripped tightly around his plane ticket while the other is clinging to the demo tape as if it might slip away from him. He bitterly thinks that something’s _already_ slipped away from him and wonders if his iron grip is just his pitiful attempt at not losing anymore than he already has. Fitz glances down at his hand and just barely makes out the neat handwriting, _not his,_ that has numbered each of the songs. His eyes flicker to number seven and he sucks in a breath at the sight of the small love heart drawn next to the words _Falling Slowly._  

He straightens at the sight and blinks back tears, quickening his pace in a horrible attempt at escaping the feelings that are now threatening to crush him. 

He hadn’t fallen slowly at all. 

He’d fallen hard and fast and without a safety net and now, as his feet carry him through the terminal towards his gate and away from Jemma, Fitz realizes that falling fast means the heartbreak comes just as quickly. 

-O- 

Fitz is halfway to London when he suddenly has a memory of his grandmother tucking him into bed and fondly whispering Gaelic words into his ear as his eyes fluttered shut. 

_Tha gaol agam ort._

He feels his heart constrict as he thinks of the _other_ woman who had so softly spoken those words to him and feels hot tears in his eyes at the realization that he never got the chance to say them back.

_I love you._


	2. Should You Want a Happy(ish) Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a Saturday morning nearly a year after he’d left home for the second time, Fitz is overcome by an urge to once again fade into the background of busy London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual film ends in a way that's more bitter than sweet and I couldn't help myself with making FitzSimmons have a bit more luck in their relationship.

On a Saturday morning nearly a year after he’d left home for the second time, Fitz is overcome by an urge to once again fade into the background of busy London. 

He’s been consistent with his music, playing at a few small venues on nights he’s not busy with his engineering work, and has made connections that could promise the playing of _larger_ venues. He’s managed a steady balance of his passions, building, singing, and always creating, but when he wakes up this morning, he feels a panging longing to revisit the life he’d led in Glasgow during the greatest summer of his 27 years. 

There’s no watch shop in the area that Fitz thinks would welcome him in with open arms and willingly let him get his hands on the merchandise, so Fitz settles for grabbing his guitar from its home in his living room and lugging it out the door. 

He hasn’t busked at all in London, not before and _certainly_ not after his time in Glasgow, but he knows exactly where to go for this cathartic release. 

He makes his way through London, Oyster card in one hand and guitar in the other, and winds up at St. Pancras station where he _knows_ he’s seen buskers in the past. His eyes flicker through the large crowd of people in the massive building and he begins to walk, eyes scoping out the area in search of the perfect place to set up. He’s spent ten minutes walking through station when he hears the echo of a piano through the mob of people trying to get from one train to the next. There’s something familiar, yet distinctly _off,_ about the notes that are mingling with the idle chatter and general bustle of the station. He strains his ears for a moment, trying to make out the tune from the staggered notes he can actually hear, and feels his heart begin to double in speed when the pieces fall together in his mind. 

It’s not the typical version of the song, far softer and slower than the upbeat original, but Fitz would recognize it anywhere after spending much of his time actively avoiding it. 

His mouth falls open and he can feel the blood thrumming beneath his skin as the steady notes of the piano continue to pierce through the station and Fitz suddenly finds himself sprinting in the direction of the music. He weaves his way through the crowds, the music growing louder with each step he takes, and he pulls up short when he spots a woman with chestnut hair perched gingerly on the piano bench. 

She’s facing away from him but the soft curls of her hair look so familiar and Fitz wonders if this is just another instance in which his mind has decided to play a cruel trick on him. He’s about to turn away like always, unwilling to walk around to the other side of the piano to catch a glimpse of the woman and risk it not being _her,_ but then she begins to sing and Fitz feels the breath whoosh from his lungs. 

He’s spent every day listening to the demo he’d made in Glasgow, focusing all of his attention on the soft voice of the woman who’d managed to have a greater impact on him in one month than anyone else in all his life. 

He’d recognize her voice anywhere and, as it just so happens, he recognizes it right in this instant. 

There’s a suitcase next to her that looks big enough to fit a grown man and Fitz feels another burst of hope shoot through him at the implication. He’d spent an embarrassingly long amount of time thinking about the girl from Glasgow, seeing her brown eyes in the last dregs of his cooling tea and hearing her laugh in all of the London sounds that inspire him, and now there’s a very real possibility that the thought of her will no longer fill him with an all-consuming feeling of melancholia. 

 _This_ thought spurns Fitz on and he mindlessly undoes the latches on his guitar case before looping the strap over his head and closing his eyes as he listens to the tempo and key that the pianistis playing in. He gives himself ten seconds to process as much as he can before his anxious excitement gets the best of him and he opens his mouth to sing along. 

The pianist stops playing the moment he joins in, tensing at the sound of his brogue as he belts out the song he vowed he would never be caught dead playing, and Fitz mentally crosses his fingers when the young woman begins to swivel on the bench. Her eyes are wide when they land on him and Fitz wonders if the sound of his thumping heart might be mistaken for drums by anyone moving past him. 

Because it _is_ her. 

It’s Jemma.

She’s sitting five feet away from him with her mouth open and her eyes unblinking and all Fitz can do is keep singing. He keeps his gaze locked on hers as he reaches the chorus and begins to promise that he’d walk 500 miles and 500 more, just to be the man who’d walk a thousand miles to wind up at her door. 

His eyes are glistening slightly and he can see that hers are as well. She blinks quickly before moving her fingers to swipe at the tears on her face and, when she looks up at him again, Fitz raises an eyebrow and nods towards the piano with an unspoken, “Well?” 

She’s still wearing a stunned expression on her face but doesn’t hesitate to give him a watery smile and twist back around to resume her own playing. Fitz moves closer, walking to the other side of the piano so he can get a better look at her, and revels in the way that their voices so effortlessly blend together even after all this time. 

Fitz can’t help but think that the Proclaimers have got nothing on him and Jemma and he feels the smile stretch across his face as they reach the chorus of the song _together_ this time. Their voices fuse together and Fitz once again feels that same surge of _something_ that he’s only ever felt once before. 

He can’t tear his gaze from the woman in front of him and feels his heart double in speed when her eyes meet his above the piano. He thinks it stops beating all together when she gives him a small wink and furrows her nose in the same way she always does. 

When they belt out the final notes of the song, Fitz steps back and watches with the standard feeling of awe as Jemma’s fingers fly across the keyboard and she brings the song to a close. 

When she finally pulls her hands off of the piano, Jemma’s head snaps up as her eyes once again lock on his. He’s breathing heavily, partly because of the singing but _mostly_ because he’s once again in the presence of the girl he never thought he’d see again, and can’t seem to keep the grin off of his face. She stares at him for a few long moments, unmoving and unblinking, and Fitz fidgets slightly under her stare. His smile falters slightly at the thought that she might not be quite as happy to see him as he is to see her. 

He’s about to open his mouth to say something when a smattering of applause breaks through the silence. Fitz’s mouth snaps shut at the sound and he blinks quickly as he peers at the crowd that has gathered around him and Jemma. He watches in surprise as people flit towards the guitar case he’d left a few feet away and drop coin after coin into it. 

He gives an awkward wave and nod of appreciation to the people that have gathered before turning back towards Jemma. She’s standing now, eyes almost level with his, and Fitz has to hold his breath when her caramel stare locks on him. He has a million things that he wants to say, secrets and confessions that he’s kept to himself since departing Glasgow, but can’t settle on one over another. 

Instead, he scratches his head and gives Jemma a small smile before moving his hand from where it’s gripped tightly around the neck of his guitar. 

“ _Leo_ Fitz.” 

His arm is stretched awkwardly in front of him, half tangled in his guitar strap, but he doesn’t have time to focus on the discomfort when the only thing he can process is the fact that the girl he’d left behind is somehow in front of him. 

She stares at his hand for a few long moments, still breathing heavily from their duet, and Fitz is about to pull back when her eyes meet his once more and a beaming smile erupts across her face. It’s the same smile he’d tried to imprint in his head so long ago and Fitz isn’t surprised to discover that he hadn’t managed to do it a lick of justice. 

He can feel his mouth curving into a matching grin and is slightly embarrassed to admit that his eyes have once again become slightly watery at the realization that, somehow, they’re both here _together._ The embarrassment fades slightly when Fitz sees a slight sheen in _her_ eyes as well and dissipates completely when she grabs his hand, worn and callused from both his work and his art, and squeezes it in her own as she takes a step closer and gazes at him with a fondness that he hasn’t been on the receiving end of in nearly a year. 

Her smile grows again when he tightens his grip on her and, despite the noise of the commuters that surround them, Fitz can hear her melodic voice as clearly as ever. 

“Jemma. Jemma _Simmons_.”


End file.
